


First day of my life

by Ibbyliv



Series: In Paris With You [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse, Alcohol Withdrawal, Angst, Cats, Coffee Shops, College AU, Depression, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff, Friendship, Hypochondria, M/M, Major Character Injury, Multi, Music, Neighbors, Panic Attacks, Pining, Police Brutality, Slam Poetry, Slow Burn, Smut, Unresolved Sexual Tension, paris porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-28
Updated: 2014-10-28
Packaged: 2018-01-21 04:01:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 136,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1536779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ibbyliv/pseuds/Ibbyliv
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a while the three of them are covered in a thin layer of sweat, despite the cold Parisian weather outside. The rain seems to have stopped and a few stray sunrays are peeking under the clouds, reflecting on the wet trees and the sea of rooftops out of the window. Combeferre inspects their work with a reserved smile, the living room still looking bombarded, covered furniture and the oddest unpacked things, boxes and wrapping paper everywhere yet his books already perfectly organized on the bookcase. “It’s a very nice place,” Enjolras hears himself muttering, walking around the other few rooms of their apartment. "The only thing that's left now is to hope our neighbours are decent."</p><p><em>Really</em>, he thinks after what seems like ages, lying on his bed and holding his breath in order not to miss another, just a few inches of cement and a pocketful of hurt pride away, <em>he should have known when Courfeyrac turned around and flashed him a mischievous smile. "Let's hope they're not."</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Swear I was born right in the doorway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The one where the triumvirate meets the neighbours and Enjolras is thoroughly irritated._

The secret about Paris is to never shut your eyes. But even when you do, even when dull necessity causes your lids to tingle with tears and the irreclaimable act of blinking to interrupt the flow of the dream unfolding in your mind, still do not let yourself miss a thing. Because if you do, Paris is going to deceive you, and then you'll never be wholly delivered. If that happens, then you should better shut your eyes forever and throw your head back, allow the frenzy to immure you in its inescapable folds of flames, elegant and poorly disguised with a few stray rays of sunshine that fall on the medieval bits and pieces which are left on the Ile de la Cite and make even what some people once called the demolishment of Baron Haussmann seem enthralling, or the gentle singing of the rain as it pours on Montane St. Genevieve, as if to tenderly tuck to sleep with its glassy blanket of autumn mist, those who with their minds and their hands resurrected the city again. No, don’t let Paris deceive you, not with the soft breezes against your cheek or against the marble cheeks of the permanent, eternal inhabitants of every garden and palace and church. Keep your eyes open, and if you shut them never open them again because you will definitely be deceived, seduced by the eerie melodies of freedom that invite you to dance at their rhythm in the aristocratic halls of the Belle Époque, aroused in every way by the scent of the blood of the revolutionaries, still fresh and never peacefully diffused to an underworld which still awaits for The Age of the Enlightment, the abased who've lost their voice, stuffed in the Catacombs under the metro station Denfert-Rochereau which is a pun _d'enfer,_ of hell, the Hades of the sewers whose love for Persephone, the Woman, the City, will always be unrequited. The fog in her eyes while she’s trapped in the gate of hell is made of clouds, the dreams and sorrows of the poets, the fading colors of the artists who, like her, will always be alive and forever trapped in their own Revolution. Don’t be deceived by the sun on the silent, wise cobblestone or the scent of the coffee in every café and brasserie where time seems to flow slowly. In Paris nothing makes sense. Nothing fits yet not a thing feels out of place. Everything clashes. Bourgeois and Napoleonic. King and clochard, worker, student and gamin, black bread, sponge cake and macarons. Revolt, beauty, death, _liberté_. Don’t try to seek the truth. Only the rain mutes and hides the secrets of both the future and the past, and at the same time washes them clear and reveals, in a single drop, all you need to know and look no further. Just try to catch it before it falls in the Seine and meddle with the others, because then you’ll have to follow her example.

Don’t walk in Paris. Don’t listen to what they say. All you need is to wake up and open the window pane. Stick your head outside and your tongue at the sky. Taste one of its teardrops. Breathe it in, all in one greedy intake. Then swallow it. Paris is inside you. Repeat.

*

The day they move in their new apartment the skies open and Paris almost drowns in rain. With the sun shining on the sky. In the middle of February. That’s the deal about Enjolras’ life and that of his friends’. Normal things simply don’t happen to them.

“Do we really need all those dead bugs in the house?” Courfeyrac scoffs as he climbs the stairs, hidden behind two huge boxes that apparently contain Combeferre’s precious insect collection.

“I was going to ask the same question about the eleventh shoe box that I carried,” Combeferre appears behind a huge pile of bubble wrapping paper which is probably going to prove itself very useful to Enjolras’ exam stress later.

“Listen,” begins Courfeyrac, matter-of-factly. “I’m ladies’ man, man’s man, man about town. These shoes are _part_ of me. You _remember_ that day! There was a huge blowout at the vintage store near Librairie des Abbesses, besides you forget you bought that hideous lime green sweater vest!”

“Sometimes I observe both your capitalistic tendencies and reconsider my choices in friends,” mutters Enjolras, all spite completely absent from his quite affectionate, teasing voice.

“Should I remind you the _fourth_ coffee machine I just unpacked?” Courfeyrac narrows his eyes in mock offense.

“For you information, it was a _lungo_ machine. Why don't you stay away from it next time you don't want shitty coffee?”

“Behave, boys,” they hear Combeferre’s slightly scolding voice, while he’s putting dozens of huge books out of boxes, arranging them on their newly placed bookcase. “We need to at least pretend to be grownups if we want this place to be habitable before midnight.”

“That’s right. We needs to rush, in order to seriously work on those articles tonight, we've only been postponing it for so long,” Enjolras is brought back in order.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Courfeyrac sighs dramatically. “We’re three adults who’re adulting in an adultery manner, I fail to see where your problem is!”

The truth is that Enjolras is incredibly stressed out. He still insists that it was a terrible idea to move out just before the end of the term, and even while unpacking and arranging furniture in their new apartment, his mind cannot be liberated of thoughts related to the studying he has to finish and all the work that needs to be done and is related to their activism. Even then, however, he fails to keep cross at his best friends, and he hardly even holds back his smile when a passing Courfeyrac ruffles his mop of blond hair.

After a while the three of them are covered in a thin layer of sweat, despite the cold weather. The crazy rain seems to have stopped and a few stray sunrays are peeking under the clouds, reflecting on the wet trees and the Parisian rooftops out of the window. Combeferre inspects their work, the living room still looking bombarded, covered in furniture and the oddest unpacked things, boxes and wrapping paper everywhere yet his books already perfectly organized on the bookcase. “It’s a very nice place,” Enjolras hears himself saying, walking around the other few rooms of their apartment. "Let's hope our neighbours are decent."

Courfeyrac turns around and offers him a glowing grin. "Let's hope they're not." Then he opens the window widely and looks outside. “It’s perfect,” he beams, the excitement palpable in the sound of his voice. “Now, is anyone else as famished as I am? All this unpacking requires better nutrition for boys in a developmental stage!” One who doesn’t know the aforementioned boy with the milk chocolate skin and the bitter chocolate curls would normally assume that Courfeyrac is suggesting to prepare lunch for the three of them, but expectedly enough it’s Combeferre who ends up in the kitchen, sleeves of his button up rolled up, his thick eyebrows smudged behind his thicker spectacles, wearing Courfeyrac's kitsch  _Baise le Chef_ apron.

Enjolras is exhausted when he finally settles into his room, full with unpacked boxes and suitcases. His favorite social justice message posters, as well as those of his icons are already hanging on the wall. He may not have studied anything all day but as he hears his best friends’ laughter from inside the kitchen, all he can do is smile with satisfaction.

This is already feeling like a good life.

*

It’s perfect. Everything is perfect. The pressure of the water in their new shower, Enjolras’ new coffee machine (Courfeyrac makes a mental note to not apologize for calling him on it because Enjolras called him a capitalist and that is not a trespass that can be easily forgiven), the smell of flowers and traffic and _Paris_ out of the window in his room, the way his hair looks today, the speech he just finished correcting with Combeferre, everything is perfect. Courfeyrac simply loves it here.

Combeferre is taking a small nap to sleep the exhaustion of moving in and cooking for three of the day off. Enjolras has already found a favorite armchair in their new living room, like the cat he refuses he is, and is balancing his laptop on his knees, proofreading an essay. It doesn’t take long for Courfeyrac to get dressed in his electric blue pants, maroon brogues and matching bowtie, before nodding at the mirror and leaving the apartment with his sole, innocent purpose to investigate the building. How he ends up in the fucking Jardin des Plantes itself, out in the fire escape, he doesn’t have the faintest idea.

He’s truly mesmerized by his newest discovery and he carefully walks between all the ceramic pots, full with colorful flowers that smell exquisitely, a few of them hanging from the exit stairs, the rain shining like tiny diamonds on the petals, pink, purple, blue and yellow, and he wonders how the fuck this is still a fire escape and who managed to get away with this. Whoever it is, he’s already in love with them.

Well, shit. He rushed to speak.

It is an elf. Or a fairy. A forest nymph. It just _can’t_ be fucking human because they’re so gorgeous and Courfeyrac is so done, Courfeyrac simply can’t.

“I see you’ve discovered my garden.”

Isn’t that line out of a Disney movie? Or Narnia? Courfeyrac does not have the faintest idea but he is quite speechless because he makes another step only to realize that it _is_ actually a human, a pretty gorgeous one at that. His hair is mint green, his ears pierced several times, and he looks tiny in his huge tribal poncho and thick metallic leggings. He’s dressed accordingly for the chilly winter weather, yet his feet are bare and stepping on the rainy steps of the staircase. “Sorry,” he murmurs, sounding more terrified than he should for frick’s sake, “I didn’t want to…”

“Nay, it’s cool,” the man smiles, and the faint blush on his freckle-scattered cheeks can be either the beginning of freezing and the foresight of stalactites on his nose, or maybe a look of shyness that seems made for his face and for those in Rossetti's paintings. “You don't look exactly like the type for this neighborhood?"

Courfeyrac is somehow drawn by the ease in the other’s words and the quiet, deep voice they are spoken in, and he just realizes that he didn’t even need to explain he’s one of the new neighbours. “I thought that everywhere in Paris is expensive as fuck." The other shrugs his shoulders in silent agreement. "Anyway, Enjolras’ parents cut him out,” he shrugs his shoulders, “that was the best we could do. I love it here though! I love your garden!”

“Thanks. I love my flowers so much though sometimes I forget to water them. We’re all so lucky we have Feuilly,” beams the man, giving him a hand to shake. Courfeyrac notices the fading purple nail polish on his bitten nails and _he mustn't. Squee_. “I’m Jean Prouvaire, but friends call me Jehan.”

He shakes his hand, giving the other the most charming grin of his collection and letting a wince. “Your hands are cold! I’m Courfeyrac, by the way.”

“Oh, you’re the friend Marius won’t shut up about!”  

“Do you know Pontmercy?” 

“He’s Ponine’s old neighbour!” Jehan shrugs his shoulders matter-of-factly, as if Courfeyrac is supposed to know who Ponine is. “He’s the one who told you for the apartment, right?”

“Uh, yeah…”

“It’s us he learnt it from, obviously!” The man stares at the sky with a frown, then back at Courfeyrac. “He’s a fun boy, Marius. Though a tad lost. Well it was lovely to meet you but now I’ve really got to run. I promised Grantaire we’d have a knitting evening and this indecisive weather’s doing strange things to my brain. I normally love the rain, you know.”

“I love the sun,” Courfeyrac blurts out.

“Of course you do,” grins Jehan absent-mindedly after a small pause, their eyes not quite meeting. “Our paths may probably cross again.”

“May they?” Courfeyrac hears himself asking, and without an answer Jehan turns around and gets inside the building, his bare feet thumping on the wet, frozen floor.

*

Courfeyrac is in the middle of a frenzy about the probable nonexistence of such a person outside of his mind when they hear a knock on the door and Courfeyrac literally flies from the back of the room to the door.

Enjolras is working on some notes when a lanky, absurdly-ginger-for-his-complexion guy neither of them has seen before appears at the door and Courfeyrac can swear he’s never seen his friend’s eyes focusing so intensely on a person before. The newcomer is holding a plate full with what seems like bright pink cupcakes therefore he’s immediately welcomed and pulled into the apartment by Courfeyrac. “Hey, sorry to interrupt,” the man says and Enjolras rests his notes on the couch, shaking his head because cupcakes and no, he’s not intruding. “I’m Feuilly, I live upstairs.”

“Do you live with Jehan?” Courfeyrac can feel Enjolras’ questioning look piercing through his skin but is used to ignore it.

“No, Jehan lives next door to you. My apartment is on the third, with Bahorel. Jehan and Grantaire made these to welcome you though, and they both had to leave for work so they asked me to bring them to you between my jobs.”

“Dear me he’s _so_ romantic!” squeals Courfeyrac at the sight of the pink cupcakes, just on the point when Combeferre enters the living room fully dressed, wiping his wet hair with a towel.

“Thank you, that’s very kind of you,” Combeferre smiles to Feuilly. “Please, take a seat. That’s Courfeyrac and Enjolras over there.”

“I don’t really have time to stay, sorry. My shift starts in half an hour.”

Enjolras’ intense gaze on the man is still apparent. “You said _jobs_ , right? As in, you were working and now you’re heading to another one?”

“Uh, you know, I do stuff here and there. Clocks, fans, cafés, bars, petrol stations…” Nobody questions the significance of words such as _clocks_ and _fans_ yet Enjolras seems considerably interested to the man’s every word and if his best friend develops a crush on their neighbour Courfeyrac swears he’ll throw a party. With strippers. Maybe he’ll do the stripper himself. It’ll be fun.

Maybe he’ll ask Combeferre to join.

Maybe not.

“You shouldn't let Jehan hear you calling him romantic though,” Courfeyrac realizes that Feuilly is addressing him, a half-amused smile on his tired, freckled face. “A Romantic, now that’s a completely different story. He’s been asking for a human skull for quite a while now. Says it’ll help him to have someone to chat with for brainstorming. All these years I’ve known him, I’ve half expected him to introduce me to a pet lobster but then again, Maenad counts for three.”

Courfeyrac’s head is spinning because _Maenad_ who the fuck is Maenad and oh my god their _neighbours what are even their neighbours_ when he notices Enjolras’ scrutinizing look at the fucking cupcakes. Of course after moving in they’re in vast need of food, any kind of it, even after Combeferre’s sausages and fries – especially cupcakes. After a few seconds though a better look at said cupcakes helps Courfeyrac to understand. The icing on half of them says LET'S STICK IT TO THE MAN and the rest say DOWN WITH THE PATRIARCHY.

“This is actually creative,” Courfeyrac mutters half to Feuilly – half to himself. “Enjo look! The utilization of this concept could open several paths in stirring the …”

“Listen,” Combeferre gives Feuilly an approving smile, “why don’t you all join us for tea some time? It would be nice to have a chat and meet the rest.”

“Thanks, that’s kind of you. I work, however…”

“Tomorrow morning before classes then, and before your work,” Courfeyrac rushes to interrupt, “come for breakfast.”

“We could do that…”

“Bring Jehan!” Courfeyrac says with a dead-serious expression.

“Uh, sure –”

“And Nutella –”

“Courfeyrac I’m positively sure we already have like four buckets of Nutella –”

“This is an emergency supply Ferre, you can’t expect us to finish our emergency supply, what if the apocalypse - ”

Enjolras makes a decisive step forward. “It was nice meeting you, Feuilly. We’d be delighted to share the opinions of you and your flatmate on several issues tomorrow morning.”

Courfeyrac honestly doesn’t know what he’ll do with his life if Feuilly’s picture ends up on Enjolras’ Wall of Extremely Important Men, so instead he follows Combeferre in the corridor, grabbing the towel from his hands and flowing it in the air like a revolutionary banner. “Ferre, I need you to sneak me a human skull!”

*

Moving out just before the end of the term was a very bad idea, Enjolras knew that all along yet he understood the problems and their hurry very well and had not objected to his friends’ decision. It has also taken him a while to convert to the new environment, yet he immediately starts working. He ignores Combeferre’s suggestion to go to sleep long after midnight. He absent-mindedly explains Courfeyrac why he can’t join them out tonight, not even moving his eyes from his computer. He doesn’t even realize that it’s past 2AM, not when his eyelids start feeling heavy, not when he yawns twelve times in a row, not even when he finds his eyes struggling with the same paragraph for the seventh time. But his exhaustion and his need to finish two papers, an essay (not due for another week) and an article are not the only problem, no. It’s also that loud, disturbing music pounding in his ears -he recognizes Arctic Monkeys because he has too been through a phase that left him with a pierced nipple, thank you very much- coming, as it seems, through the wall. It’s so loud that the whole room seems to be vibrating and he’s starting to develop a headache which is going to be proven disastrous for his work.

Now, Enjolras should get more credit for staying calm through things because he usually _does_ manage. Specifically though when the end of the term is just around the corner, in such unorthodox hours of the night, his blood consisting merely of coffee, it’s possible for him to lose his patience, and that’s how he finds himself knocking on the door of the apartment next to their own, the personification of righteous fury with his mop of golden curls held in a bun by a pencil, dark circles under his eyes, lips pressed to a thin line, and cheeks colored to match his red hoodie. He waits for a while, tapping his foot on the floor impatiently until he knocks again. He can still hear the music coming from inside, until it’s eventually a bit muffled and the door opens.

The man standing on the door is practically consisting of acrylic paint. Enjolras feels instinctively annoyed, not only for the interruption to his work. It’s also something else, maybe the unruly state of the stranger’s dark curls which are sticking on his sweaty forehead and the smug smile that doesn’t quite reach his pale blue eyes, the faint smell of smoke lingering in the air and causes him to scrunch up his nose, or maybe the way these eyes are fixed on him in a way he can’t quite read and that makes him palpably uncomfortable, but then again Enjolras is too tired to consider all the possibilities, so instead he clears his throat. “Can you please turn down the music because I’m trying to finish some studying?” he asks, his head throbbing with exhaustion.

“It’s 2AM,” the man quirks an eyebrow.

“Uh… yes?”

“And you’re studying.”

“I’m... studying?”

“Don’t look at me, that’s what you told me. Studying. At 2AM.”

Enjolras is on the verge of distressed tears because he really doesn’t have time to chat with a neighbour whose name he doesn’t even know right now. “Some people actually want to do something with their lives, you know?”

The dark haired man tuts understandingly. “Right. Of course. Sorry for interrupting your educational process and stepping in the path of sacred enlightenment and societal reformation.”

Before he’s able to question the mocking tone of the man’s last sentence – even when Enjolras didn’t mention anything about societal reformation – he’s deprived by that right by a furry tornado that viciously attacks his sweatpants. Saying that Enjolras is taken aback would be an understatement and he fervently tries to free himself by shaking his leg but the grey cat who has appeared out of nowhere seems quite determined to keep her claws attached on him forever.

“Stop staring or so help me!” he groans, particularly pissed off at his incapability of dealing with a murderous furry beast.

The stranger is looking thoroughly amused and he surely takes his time reaching for the cat who’s hissing at Enjolras, managing to pull her away and holding her near his face, cooing at her as if Enjolras is not even present. “Who’s a good kitty? Who’s a fluffy cuddly kitty? Is Maenad a fluffy cuddly kitty?”

Said kitty is currently displaying all of her sharp teeth and hissing at her owner and Enjolras decides that he has seen more than enough, thank you very much. “I should go now,” he says. “Do something with that music.”

“At your command and now pray do forgive me for I must leave you, I'm in my blue period,” the man takes his blue eyes away from Maenad, showing at the state of his clothes, as if expecting Enjolras to take some hidden message. “Picasso?” he explains hesitantly and, noticing Enjolras’ baffled expression, reaches for the door. “Anyway, goodnight Apollo. Don’t let the exams bite.”

“Wait,” Enjolras snaps in a confused voice, placing his hand on the handle. “That’s not my name.”

“Oh really,” the man says with vivid interest engraved on his features. “Forgive me your mightiness, for I misheard.”

“It’s _Enjolras_ ,” he huffs, emphasizing every syllable.

“Of course,” Maenad jumps off her owner’s arms with an angry meow and disappears inside the apartment. There is a strange smile on his face, for a moment it feels almost gentle and Enjolras reckons that he really does need some sleep. “Of course it is.”

Enjolras turns around to leave when he hears a voice from the door he’d assumed already shut. “Grantaire. Not that you asked.” He stops and looks back again. The man is still standing there, peering behind a half shut door, the same smile always on his face.

“Oh,” a realization downs Enjolras and pangs him with sudden guilt at the sound of the man’s name. “Thanks for the cupcakes, I guess.”

Grantaire’s grin grows on his paint-stained face and he opens the door a crack more. “They weren’t ambrosia but I hope they were... _tempting_ enough.”

“They were good,” replies Enjolras, angry with himself for even making an effort.

“Only the best for the Greek God occupying the room next to mine!” and with that, Grantaire disappears behind the shut door and, shortly after, said room is inevitably filled with music.

Enjolras can only bang his head on the desk, to the rhythm of 'We'll Never Be Royals'.


	2. I kiss you on the brain in the shadow of the train

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Good morning starshine, the world says hello!” Jehan’s singing voice seems to be coming from a distant universe where sleep is indeed for the weak and Grantaire is not one of them, where Greek Gods of Sun reign with their rose-kissed comrades and The Beatles are still together. 
> 
> “What the actual fuck,” he groans into his pillow but Jehan has already opened the blinds widely and pinched his ribs. “Ow!” Grantaire jumps up and swears loudly. “I haven’t even slept!” he growls.
> 
> “Not my division,” chirps Jehan. “Neither have I but I’m not smelly and cranky!”
> 
> “Actually you are smelly,” Grantaire rolls off his bed, rubbing his eyes with another groan. “You smell of nauseating pink cocktails and strawberry nargile”.
> 
> “You should have come,” mutters Jehan, pinning his uneven auburn braids to a bun, using the foggy window pane as a mirror. “Parnasse joined us later, he’s got a new tattoo.”
> 
> “I don’t give a shit about Parnasse’s ink. He can go paint Chanel’s logo on his balls for all I care,” croaks Grantaire.
> 
> _Or the one where no one can pull their shit together, Grantaire is entirely too fucked, and the Paris metro is forever playing the matchmaker._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah, here's the second chapter. Thank you so much for your response, you're just so kind and amazing I really don't know what to say! The chapters will gradually start getting longer and longer because omg I have a lot of shit to write. I really hope it isn't all a pile of disappointing cliches. Please don't hesitate to tell me your opinion and help me, also this is a college AU so everything fits, I'd love to hear what you'd want to read!  
> I don't know if you can tell but I couldn't resist another reference to Bright Eyes' First Day of my Life because this song makes my heart go woo...  
> The title of this chapter is from the lovely song Anyone Else But You from the Juno soundtrack.

He stands there at the doorway, the world having stopped to turn around him, his skin pulling with dried paint, his heart thrumming wildly in his chest filling the room with its frantic rhythm as if it belongs to another body, to another person who has just disappeared behind his shut door. Grantaire has never felt so close to his end before, yet trembling so as if he’s just been reborn, as if he’s life has just begun and he’s asphyxiating, it’s a choking feeling which is entirely too welcome at the same time.

His fingers have gone numb, a paralyzing sensation that travels through his clammy palms and seems to be spreading in his veins like poison or the sweetest of balsams.

He buries his fingers in his dark curls, stained with green and violet and orange, tugging on his hair until the roots hurt, pulling and holding there just to feel that his body is still responding to mild stimulus from the environment. He then brings his hands to press them on his chest, filling his grey t-shirt with more colors, it’s mostly red as if he’s been fucking shot but he has, hasn’t he? His chest is on fire and he briefly wonders whether his heartbeat can echo through the thin walls of the apartment and move in Enjolras’ room.

He wants to curse, he wants to cry, he wants to curl on the floor and stare at the wall opposite him with a hysterical smile until Maenad comes to claw his eyeballs out of his fucking head. That will probably give him a good shake.

He immediately tries to bring the Adonis' face back to his mind, to capture and memorize every feature, every slight frown, every note of his bass voice because if that image leaves his head he’ll die he’s sure of it. The image is so vivid and yet at the same time it’s slipping away and Grantaire tugs his fingers tighter around the fabric of his t-shirt until his knuckles turn white, as if to entrap every memory that ended ten seconds ago.

It’s nauseating and it’s _wrong,_ it’s so sweet a feeling, so chaste and overwhelming like the song of millions of angels, so ridiculous that is sure is fucking _sick_ , the painful emptiness in his stomach and the pressing swelling in his ribs, the prickling sensation on his cheeks and the throbbing reaction of his head at the soft, intoxicating scent of coffee and clothes softener – _sandalwood and apples–_ that’s still lingering in his apartment. He’d thought himself experienced, prematurely old and tired yet now he’s resurrected and alive and so, _so_ screwed.

He swears loudly, causing Maenad to meow furiously and jump off the cupboard where she was climbed, then punches his brow with the bridges of his hands, which is a really bad idea as his eyelids get stained with paint that tingles. The paint buckets are still open in his shithole of a bedroom, the huge white canvas waiting at him mockingly, the color vomit dripping slowly on the newspaper clad floor.

Instead he falls on the mattress heavily like a dead man, heart still pounding, facing the ceiling. At some point in the night he hears Éponine and Jehan returning. They think he’s asleep. He lies like that until the first rays of the white, cloudy dawn enter through the blinds of the window.

_I’m glad I didn’t die before I met you –_

Then, he falls asleep.

*

“Good morning starshine, the world says hello!” Jehan’s singing voice seems to be coming from a distant universe where sleep is indeed for the weak and Grantaire is not one of them, where Greek Gods of Sun reign with their rose-kissed comrades and The Beatles are still together. When Grantaire opens a bleary eye however, there’s only dull grey gloominess entering through the window and he’s met with the brutal realization that it’s only seven o’clock and he's slept for less than an hour.

“What the actual fuck,” he groans into his pillow but Jehan has already opened the blinds widely and pinched his ribs. “Ow!” Grantaire jumps up and swears loudly. “I haven’t even slept!” he growls.

“Not my division,” chirps Jehan. “Neither have I but I’m not smelly and cranky!”

“Actually you are smelly,” Grantaire rolls off his bed, rubbing his eyes with another groan. “You smell of nauseating pink cocktails and strawberry nargile”.

“You should have come,” mutters Jehan, pinning his uneven auburn braids to a bun, using the foggy window pane as a mirror. “Parnasse joined us later, he’s got a new tattoo.”

“I don’t give a shit about Parnasse’s ink. He can go paint Chanel’s logo on his balls for all I care,” croaks Grantaire.

“He’s good when he supplies us though isn’t he?”

Grantaire can’t really deny that so instead he just buries his head in the pillow. “Get up we have to go to work,” Jehan pulls the covers away and Grantaire mentally creates a dozen evil master plans to torture his best friend the way he’s being tortured.

“No work for me until eight thirty, sorry mate.”

“Nah,” Jehan brings him his boots and a clean t-shirt at his bed. “Change. We’ve promised to our new neighbours we’re joining them for breakfast first.”

That definitely wakes – and sobers – Grantaire up rather quickly. “And why should I change,” he asks like a grumpy kid, his throat suddenly particularly dry. “Is my paint not good enough for their stuck up Greek noses?”

Jehan turns around and gives him a blank look. “You reek is all.”

“And why do you care?”

“Someone has to.”

“Certainly not you. You left for that poetry reading in socks and flip flops when it snowed in January and you didn’t notice until you’d reached Shakespeare and Company.”

Jehan shoves the reminiscence away without the tiniest hint of embarrassment. “It wasn’t _that_ cold, I was in the metro.”

“It’s a miracle you didn’t catch pneumonia.”

“Yeah you caught it instead didn’t you?” chuckles Jehan, throwing a huge patchwork cardigan over his ditsy pyjama pants. “Come on, the neighbours are waiting.”

“Who said I’m coming?”

“I did.”

“Yeah just because you want to jump Bowtie Boy,” murmurs Grantaire through gritted teeth.

“Get off your lazy ass,” Jehan says quickly and Grantaire can swear he’s blushing. “Ponine is already there, we shouldn’t make them wait.”

“Ponine is already there because she smelt _the food_ right through the walls!” protests Grantaire and they both know he’s vaguely right. "Besides, being fashionably late is your life philosophy."

“Don’t pretend you’re not starving too. Should I remind you that we spent all of yesterday with gummy worms and stale Pringles because you were stricken with artistic inspiration?”

“I’m not your personal chef you could have cooked too you know, instead of making herbal tea and wearing fuzzy socks and posing on your bed as if you were waiting a hipster photo blogger to burst into your rooms and beg you’d become his sweater muse.”

“Fuck you I was writing,” protests Jehan. “I saw one of them when I was returning, you know,” he quickly changes the subject. “He’d gone out to buy the paper.”

“In 6AM?”

“Precisely. He looked suspiciously like the classical sculptures you like so much so you might want to join us after all.”

_Yeah thanks Prouvaire and your mischievous fucking tone, you know perfectly well that I can’t stay back now because I’ll rise suspicions, as if it isn’t already fucked up to swoon over our new neighbour that looks sinfully like a fucking sculpture._

Grantaire stumbles out of the apartment and in the cold, cruel corridor, in the clean t-shirt and a pair of socks, his paint stained sweats still on.

The guy who opens the door is perfectly dressed in chinos, button up and cardigan with elbow patches and Grantaire immediately feels nauseous and out of place, but soon he realizes the elbow patch bespectacled dude is the only one, that and Feuilly, who’s already there fully dressed in his flannel and overalls, frying eggs in a pan. Everyone else is in the kitchen, still in their pyjamas.

“Oh there you are,” a boy with a sinfully decent bedhead jumps behind the counter, all rosy cheeked as if mornings do not affect his peachy species from planet Tanned Abs and Angular Cheekbones. Because he’s shirtless and barefoot, only in a pair of pyjama pants and an open silky night robe, and Grantaire feels Jehan stiffen at his side.

“Good morning Courfeyrac,” he hears his best friend saying and he doesn’t even need to look at his face to know what’s happening in his ditsy pants. Courfeyrac’s sugary smile is enough for Grantaire to pray that the paper thin walls of the building will miraculously become soundproof overnight.

The bespectacled guy has probably pulled his shit together before the pile of them, because he shoves mugs of hot coffee in their hands and Grantaire seriously considers dropping on his knees to kiss his spotless suede brogues.

It’s then that he notices Éponine, in his own sleep t-shirt that reaches her knees and a red flannel shirt over it, mascara smudged over her face and bangs tangled and separated, nursing what seems to be her third cup of coffee already. She waves up a hand. “Hello losers,” she says and just on time Feuilly serves the eggs on the table, while bespectacled dude introduces himself as Combeferre and provides them all with fresh crepes and _confiture_.

“So have you lived here for long?” he asks politely. He doesn’t look as cheerful and rested as Courfeyrac is, but he’s definitely in a better state than the man who enters the kitchen in his red t-shirt and massive pyjama pants, looking so grumpy that he could give Maenad a run for his money. He’s carrying a pair of black jeans and one red Converse in his hands as if he’s about to give them a striptease right on the spot and Grantaire swears he’ll die, but apparently Enjolras with those golden curls rebelliously escaping his bun and those pillow marks on his cheek, has woken from 6AM to buy the paper and somehow still manages to appear like the sleepiest and most tormented of them all, who have all had nearly non-existent sleep.

He politely greets Jehan to his new flat and gives Grantaire a cool, curt nod. His eyes lock with him for less than a second which is enough for the artist to decide that this cohabitation under the same roof – even with two doors separating them – is entirely too unhealthy for his circulatory and respiratory system, as if a liver the size of the Hexagon and a pair of lungs that would make the burnt Bastille jealous are not enough to lead him to an early grave. Then Enjolras takes his burning, narrowed eyes that will haunt Grantaire for the rest of the day away from him and turns to Feuilly, with whom they’ve apparently become besties overnight.

“So Feuilly,” Enjolras says with a veneration in his voice that stabs Grantaire in the throat and releases bitterness all over his mouth. “Please do continue what you were saying about the Crimea.”

Feuilly willingly obliges and Grantaire is stricken with realization. _Of course_. What else did the blonde grumpy god have to be to completely finish him? He should see that coming.

A deliverer of Social Justice. A pure fighter of liberty. An illuminated lover of freedom. Great. Capital. Grantaire is fucking ecstatic.

It usually is impossible for the dark haired man to keep his mouth shut but today he finds himself feeling remarkably quiet, and fuck whoever’s thriving to ruin that for their own good. He walks to the kitchen window which is astonishingly bigger than their own. He can see the fucking tip of the Eiffel tower in a  _veeery_ long distance, amongst the Parisian rooftops, muted under a veil of foggy clouds despite the traffic city sounds that never stop. He can hear his new acquaintances chatting lively in the background despite the ungodly of the hour. Much to his horror Jehan joins Feuilly and Enjolras’ political conversation with vast enthusiasm in his low voice, and soon it’s Combeferre who’s chatting fervently about the problems of bourgeois white feminism with Feuilly. It doesn’t take long for the conversation to turn to generic medication until Combeferre turns to Éponine. “You say you finished work about an hour ago?”

“Yeah we were crowded tonight.”

“You should probably go to sleep.”

Grantaire can hear the raised eyebrow in Éponine's voice without even turning to look at her. “No shit,” she exclaims, her mouth full. “I’m trying to benefit from the food and then I’ll pass out until the evening.” Grantaire is painfully jealous of her right now, because his shift at the café finishes at four and he’ll probably fall asleep on the counter with a dishcloth on his face again. Monsieur Valjean will hardly appreciate that.

Just then there is a knock on the door and Jehan stands up to open. A positively disheveled Bahorel appears on the doorway, looking ready to punch something on the throat, in nothing but a pair of bright red boxer shorts and his biker boots underneath. “What the fuck are you having a fucking pyjama party in – what, fuck o’clock?” He shouts, turning his wrist to read the sign a non-existent watch. “The whole building can hear you! Anyway now feed me.” He settles down immediately as Combeferre serves him some toast and tomatoes and Courfeyrac defensively slides the remaining Nutella bucket down the pocket of his robe.  

“We’re out of crepes!” shouts Éponine. Grantaire turns around. “I’ve got this,” he mutters because seriously, Feuilly deserves to chill out and enjoy a smoke before he’s got to leave for his first job for that day. Grantaire is not heartless – the eternally grateful look on the ginger’s face is enough payment. Combeferre lets him to the stove with an approving look. “There’s ingredients in the cupboard,” he tells him. “Have something to eat yourself, you didn’t even try Feuilly’s scrambled eggs.”

“I literally survive on Feuilly’s scrambled eggs,” Grantaire cracks a smile to the man whom he’s started taking a like on. At least he seems relatively normal compared to the others, and there’s something kind on his otherwise quiet composure.

Grantaire doesn’t pay enough attention to the different conversations going on behind his back while making the crepes but his radar immediately catches the puppy’s name as Courfeyrac responds to Jehan’s overall creepiness. “We should summon the demons for Pontmercy’s date to be successful and victimless. Do you think a blood sacrifice would do?”

He turns his head instinctively to Éponine's direction. She’s unusually quiet and biting what’s left of her fingernails. He swears under his breath. Courfeyrac hasn’t noticed anything. He’s too busy being seduced by Jehan’s charm – _the sneaky glittery bastard –_ who is now sitting cross legged on the floor while Courfeyrac absent mindedly pets his long auburn locks. Before he’s managed to notice anything else that should worry him in Éponine's distracted behavior though, he’s feeling a hot breath on his neck and freezes on spot, afraid that the pace of his – morning- breathing will give him away.

“This smells good,” he doesn’t dare to turn around, afraid of the distance that will separate him and Enjolras – not enough and not _short_ enough, he can already smell the oranges despite standing by the frying pan.

“Thanks,” he hopes his voice comes less strangled than his throat tells him.

“I can’t cook to save my life.”

It hits Grantaire that Enjolras is _actually trying to make conversation_ and that’s more than he can handle on 7:30 of Monday morning after less than an hour of sleep. Enjolras saves him of the trouble to come up with a decent reply – seriously, _is there_ a decent enough reply to that statement? – by saying “Sorry for being a bit prickly yesterday, it’s just the end of the term…”

Grantaire can hardly help a smile tugging on his lips. “Don’t worry, Apollo.”

“Why do you call me that?” comes the frustrated reply.

“Sorry, I keep forgetting your name,” Grantaire exclaims sarcastically, serving half a dozen of crepes on a plate. “Too many consonants for my remaining brain cells to take.” His eye catches Enjolras’ unamused glance. “So, activism uh? Saving the world, defying capitalism, overthrowing the monarchy? Down with that sort of thing?”

Enjolras is now looking more than unamused and Grantaire doesn’t know the extent on which he does not regret it. “It’s not a joke for you to laugh at. People’s lives are depending on our battle.”

“Oh great!” muses Grantaire cheerfully, “so are you feeding them bread or what?”

“We’re fighting for the rights of those who can’t stand up for themselves.”

“You realize how diminishing that sounds, right?”

“You know perfectly well the way I mean…”

“Oh and let me guess how you become the deliverer of justice for the oppressed,” both of them don’t even realize that every other conversation in the kitchen has ceased, and six pairs of eyes are turned on them. Grantaire realizes he’s strangling a kitchen glove. A vein is peeking under the porcelain skin on Enjolras’ forehead. “By signing petitions, shouting at the streets and waving hippie signs about Adam and Steve.”

“How…” Enjolras’ blue eyes are narrow and his cheeks flushed a deep rose. Grantaire forgets how to breathe for a while. He doesn’t even realize how making him look like that gets immediately ranked as his sole purpose, he’s looking positively furious and Grantaire himself is momentarily filled with awe. “Should I remind you the cupcakes _you_ brought us?”

“What, Stick it to the man? Please, that was Jehan,” Grantaire cackles. “I was the Down with that sort of thing. Oh, also I spat on them.” He immediately regrets that one since Jehan is looking positively hurt and Grantaire certainly didn’t mean that. “Well fuck!” shouts Courfeyrac in shock while Combeferre mutters “thank god Joly isn’t here.”

“He didn’t, he’s lying,” Jehan shoots Grantaire a death glare. “He helped me bake them to welcome you.”

“It was very kind of you,” Combeferre rushes to diffuse the tension, quite unsuccessfully.

“No seriously, are you claiming that there’s no _patriarchy_? That perhaps sexism has vanished? So has homophobia? Even racism?” Enjolras’ voice is merely disgusted and Combeferre mutters a warning “Enjolras”.

“Of course they exist,” barks Grantaire, waving the dishcloth which he’d rather willingly shove down his own throat right now. “But it’s ridiculous to think anything will change because you go out in the streets and wave your fist at their faces. It’s become picturesque. It doesn’t _work_.”

“It doesn’t work,” repeats Enjolras incredulously, “it doesn’t _work_! So you claim that no progress has been made whatsoever. You claim that women still stay in the house raising the children, unable to vote and decide for their lives. You claim that immigrants are still forced to use separate restrooms. That’s _not_ progress for you, is it!”

Grantaire sighs tiredly, feeling his pulse racing against his meninges. “So women can vote, astute observation! They also get catcalled and raped in alleys, and immigrants put their lives in fucking danger just by walking back home in the night after work! Sexism will always exist, so will racism and bigotry and _hate._ Your righteous fury won’t change any of that.”

“So you suggest we sit on our hands and mourn for ‘human’s inherently bad nature’, isn’t that what you suggest?”

The silence that falls in the kitchen is palpable. Not even Bahorel’s chewing interrupts it anymore. Everyone seems to have swallowed their tongues.

“Precisely,” Grantaire eventually mutters with a smile.

And that is all. That’s all that’s needed for everything to go to hell. Enjolras looks ready to punch him for a minute, instead he steps back and takes a deep breath, straightening himself and not shooting him another glance. “I need to go,” he says. “I have class in half an hour.”

“I’ve got to be at les Halles in a quarter,” Feuilly stands up quickly. Everyone’s avoiding each other’s gaze as they quickly spread, clearing throats and muttering cheers and good day’s. Combeferre has to be at the École de Médecine in less than twenty minutes, Jehan’s shift at the bookshop starts in an hour but he has an essay on Parnassianism to finish before and Bahorel has to ‘deal’ with all the leftovers and then carry a snoring Éponine back to her apartment.

Grantaire doesn’t stare at Enjolras while the blonde grabs a red pea coat and slips his Converse on, slamming the door behind him still in his sweats. All he sees are the skinny black jeans resting on a kitchen chair.

“People,” Bahorel in all his half naked glory pats his shoulder in what seems to be a comforting manner, almost bending him on the floor. “The lot of us is better with our mouth full.”

Grantaire overlooks the innuendo at which Bahorel is now laughing his own ass of and instead takes his friend and kickboxing partner’s wise words to heart, grabbing a crepe and folding it in his hand. “Fuck it,” he hums to himself, shoving it in his dry mouth and downing it all at once.

*

Monday is the only day when Jehan doesn’t have classes so he benefits from an extra shift at the fleurist-bookshop in Belleville, not because he is in such desperate need of money to pay his rent as Feuilly, Grantaire and Éponine are – he’s in relatively good terms with his parents though he feels much better off not having to depend on them for financial support – but mostly because at work he feels in his natural environment, surrounded by the intoxicating scent of the old, tattered pages, all the different titles among which he always discovers a new gem, all the different, fascinated faces that come to take their tea and read their book on the floral clad tables, or just browse through the exquisite flowers on the patio. Monsieur Mabeuf, the owner of the shop, book-and-plant lover extraordinaire is really fond of him and when they’re not really crowded he lets him pick a book or two and read on the narrow creaky stairs that lead to the upper floor of the tiny establishment. Sometimes he even gives him some, stating that “no one is going to ask for them and they’re better off with a loving home,” and he's the only person who completely understands Jehan when he talks to the flowers

Jehan is rather distracted today. It starts raining heavily as soon as he gets off the metro and he normally adores a proper storm, Parisian skies that open and heavy droplets that tap against the window panes, grey skies and shiny rivers on the pavements. It gives him an odd sentiment of peace and pleasant solitude, quite contradictory to the occasional thunderbolts in the horizon and the cold wind that causes the passer-byes to wrap their coats tightly around them and bow their heads at the disappointment of the sky.

Yet something deprives him from his usual dreamy melancholy that almost makes his day. Something that makes him quite nervous and bouncy, causing him to bite on his pen rather intensely, until Madame Plutarch who makes the tea and coffee, tells him that his face is stained with blue ink. They have to take the plants inside and shelter them, and with all the flower pots the small bookshop feels way too crowded even before people in dripping jackets and umbrellas rush inside to shelter themselves from the storm and warm their bones with a cup of hot chocolate. All this stuffiness causes Jehan to wish they’d leave him alone, to curl on his favorite corner of a shop that resembles a jungle, with the Medieval poetry and the ratty old velvet armchair and scribble in his notebook the stuff he’s been smudging and crossing all day. Nothing seems to be making sense, not his essay on Parnassianism, not his failed attempt to exercise his iambic pentameter and his sometimes poor Greek, not even the shameless attempt to bite on his lip until he tastes blood and write the first erotic lines that come to his mind. Instead dark pictures keep coming and filling his head, blurry sentiments that press against the walls his chest and make it hard to concentrate.

The rain continues when he returns home, soaked, exhausted and gloomy. The floor of the tiny living room is hidden under piles of old paperbacks and vinyl records, the most valuable belongings of Grantaire and him. A bucket of paint here, a few crumpled balls of paper there, the empty pizza boxes that have been left for three days, a couple of empty beer bottles and Éponine's underwear and boots. He doesn’t have the courage to tidy up. Éponine is curled into a ball, heavily asleep on the pile of pillows that serve as their couch, opposite the old TV and the cotton ball fairy lights he’s hung all over the wall. Bahorel has probably placed her here instead of her bed, and the jacket with which he’s covered her has slipped her bony figure, now shivering in the freezing cold of the apartment. All that Jehan can bring himself to do is bring the duvet from his room and curl against her, wrapping an arm around her thin waist and covering them both in the warmth.

He wakes up crankier and even more tired than he went to sleep, a disgusting taste in his mouth, his head trying to proceed the few given information that will lead to the identification of the time, considering that the sky’s too gray for anything to make sense. A glance at his phone which will soon go out of power informs him that it’s past 8PM and his ears can safely guarantee that the storm is still going on outside. Éponine, with the same shirt she’d been wearing hours ago, and her hair in the exact same state, enters the living room with a steamy mug of coffee in her hands and sits cross-legged on the floor facing him. “We didn’t have sex did we?” she asks casually, taking a sip of her sugary poison.

“We need to stop asking each other that question,” sighs Jehan in a croaked voice, stretching his cold limbs under the duvet. He’s lost a sock and his feet are frozen, so are his palms so he rolls on his stomach and places them underneath him. “Is Grantaire back?”

“Yeah, he’s sleeping,” Éponine bothers to lower the volume of her voice. “Is there anything else that we actually do in this place?”

“We drink,” Jehan groans, trying again to effectively stretch his muscles, “we smoke. We bring people over. Occasionally we eat.”

“At least the new neighbours are good for something. The nerd can cook.”

“Which nerd?”

“Right, they’re all nerds. The glasses nerd.”

“Oh come on,” coos Jehan, “I like them all. And Combeferre is so well educated.”

“You need to stop getting off on people's knowledge for moths.”

“I really can't help it, you know. It's a power beyond my will.”

“Or on their tanned abs. Just saying.”

Jehan gets a warm feeling in his chest which is not entirely too unpleasant but his stomach is feeling rather uncomfortable and he probably needs something to eat, and soon. “I don’t know,” he hums,” shifting under the duvet, “I like the fire that’s burning in Courfeyrac's determined soul.”

“Oh so it’s not about the fire that’s burning in his chinos?”

“Fuck you,” says Jehan pleasantly, throwing Éponine a cushion that finds her on the head and almost causes her to spill her coffee.

“Watch out fucker we can’t afford to make this more of a shithole,” she growls.

“You’re right, soon we’ll be called of Mice and Men and Steinbeck will have to write about us.”

Éponine snorts. "I would  _still_ be living in the house, so in that case Steinbeck would be misogynistic."

“Don't talk like that about Steinbeck," Jehan pouts. "'Sides, the mice might have paid their share of the rent.”

“You say the same about the _spiders_ though.”

“Don’t remind me,” sighs Jehan sadly. “Poor Natalie!”

“Yeah she fell heroically at the battle of the Vacuum Cleaner. And you thought it proper to throw a funeral in Bahorel’s room.”

“Bahorel _loved_ Natalie!”

“Who is she even named after?”

Jehan’s face lights up and he props his head on his hand. “Natalie Clifford Barney, American lesbian writer whose salon at 20 rue Jacob brought together literary giants from all over the world…”

“Lesbian writers I hear,” Grantaire appears in the room, ruffling his untamed dark curls, matching circles under his tired blue eyes. “Is there any coffee?” he asks groggily.

“In the kitchen,” Éponine waves her hand and Grantaire turns around and drags his body in the corridor, making a bunch of unintelligible noises.

“We need to clean up this pigsty,” Jehan sits up, strands of hair escaping the braid all over the place. “And by _we need_ I mean now,” after a silent pause during Éponine is solemnly nursing her coffee, deliberately avoiding his gaze, he growls in a terrifyingly manly voice. “GRANTAIRE!”

“I can’t hear you over the sound of the rave party all the spiders occupying the Harribo cupboard are having!” Grantaire’s shout is heard from the kitchen.

When Jehan puts something in his mind, however, it’s impossible to get away with it, so they wear bandanas on their heads and get armed with dusters and mops. By midnight they’ve made their apartment livable again. “Now you’re both going to get off your lazy asses and help me paint,” Grantaire announces.

Éponine groans from the pillow fort, massaging her aching muscles with Jehan stretched over her lap. “I have the very important and engaging occupation of lying here doing nothing,” he replies.

Before either of them can realize what’s going on, Grantaire is splashing them with paint. The three of them end up screaming and throwing paint at the huge canvas in Grantaire’s room. Then they collapse on the floor, covered in paint, chewing on bread and sharing warm beer. Everything is alright.

*

It is still raining when the morning comes.

There is something eerily peaceful about Paris in the early morning, as the foggy whiteness spreads over the Eiffel tower and les Invalides, as the cold mist brushes against the trees and flowers in the gardens and the first noises of traffic that never really cease start accompanying the brave quest of the Parisians to abandon the warmth of their beds and stumble out in the cold, empty streets, sleep still in their eyes. 

Contrary to popular belief Enjolras is not a morning person. Far from it. Should it be physically possible he’d never sleep at all – though Combeferre would declare that his best friend is already on his way of defying every scientific law – given that, if he falls asleep, waking up will be downright torturous, and going on until the first in a long series of caffeinated beverages even more. After taking a shower and sipping his coffee, though, he finds a certain clarity in the earlier hours of a clouded Parisian morning, and by the time he reaches the metro station his head is already full with plans, ideas and tasks he has to note down on his phone. The rapid rhythms of the metro relax him in a way jazz music and bubblebaths fail to do. All the different faces, colors and ages, the distant gazes outside the windows remind him what he’s fighting for. The greasy underground of the city that he loves, covered in concert and cabaret posters, the homeless people who sleep in the platforms and make his insides clench tightly and then boil with revolutionary fervor, empowering his determination with every step that he makes on the filthy piles.

That morning should be no exception, at least it doesn’t seem like one as he takes a seat near the window, considering that several more are still empty for people to sit in if they want to. The last thing he’d been expecting though, while he walks through the annoyingly _endless_ Chatelet station to change lin, would be to literally fall face to face with his neighbour, whose path he was lucky enough to not cross in their own building the previous day.

Enjolras hasn’t felt so uncomfortable in quite a long time. Combeferre tried his best to not mention the breakfast incident when they both returned from their classes in the afternoon, but Enjolras had been his friend long enough to know that look on his face. He had not regretted a word that he’d said, Grantaire’s opinions already appalled and disgusted him, but enough time had passed for him to calm down and soberly realize that it was probably a bad idea to be on such terms with their neighbour, especially, he thought with a shudder, when he was the one whose room happened to be next to his own.

There isn’t enough time to decide whether he’ll ignore him or stop to say hi and sorry I called you on your shit, people are passing by in bunches and they’re inevitably marching to each other’s way. Enjolras holds his breath for a second or two but then it’s too late because Grantaire raises his eyes.

Enjolras had almost forgotten how blue they were.

They stop for a while, in the middle of the crowd, similar thoughts probably crossing their heads. Before Enjolras knows it, Grantaire is making a few steps towards him and Enjolras wonders whether he can escape because he’s already late for class.

“Apollo,” Grantaire smiles that familiar, lopsided grin that upsets Enjolras so much. “Look who’s descended from Olympus to stroll among us mortals in the Parisian metro!”

Enjolras’ mind takes quick turns. “Grantaire,” he hears himself blurting out, “Courf told me that you work in a café.”

Grantaire looks a bit puzzled. “Yeah?” he asks. “I swear we serve fair trade and all -”

“No,” Enjolras takes a deep breath, “we were actually searching for a place to hold our meetings.” Grantaire still doesn’t seem to understand where this is going. “And I was wondering whether there’s a room in the café or something like that where we could… you know.” He exhales tiredly.

“Are you asking for my help?” Grantaire sounds incredulous.

Enjolras considers this for a minute. “Uh yeah, I guess I am.”

Grantaire takes his gloveless hands out of the pockets of his parka and inspects his palms for a while as if the answer is written there. “I’ll have Musichetta speak with Monsieur Valjean,” he raises his eyes to face Enjolras and god this blue is so transparent it’s distracting... “Maybe you could have the backroom after 9PM or something.”

Enjolras can feel his excitement rise at the possibility of finding a place. “Do you work there at that hour?”

“No, it’s Chetta’s shift,” he raises his eyes to smile faintly, his expression holding something akin to gentleness, a look Enjolras has never seen before on the man. “Don’t worry, I won’t be meddling with your noble deeds.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Enjolras mutters quickly, feeling warmth spreading on his cheeks. “I mean, Jehan and Éponine told Courfeyrac they’d be joining us tonight. You’d be welcome to attend as well.”

Grantaire looks a bit taken aback by that piece of information. “Right. Yeah. Thanks, wouldn’t miss it for anything in the world.”

Enjolras can’t tell whether Grantaire is being sarcastic or honest because he’s actually _really_ late right now. “Thank you, Grantaire,” he nods, and walks away, trying to contain his excitement.


	3. A dreaded sunny day so I meet you at the cemetery gates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joly and Bossuet start bickering like an old married couple and Courfeyrac takes the opportunity to show that not only Enjolras is married to Combeferre, but to some extent he is as well, so he turns to his best friend. “Well I don’t need your _skull_ to be happy!”
> 
> “Hello Prouvaire,” Feuilly greets merrily, staring behind Courfeyrac’s shoulder and Courfeyrac freezes on the spot.
> 
> “Well, merde,” he murmurs through his teeth before turning around to meet the newcomers.
> 
> “How do you know you don’t need Combeferre’s skull to be happy?” Jehan asks cheerfully, grabbing a chair near Bahorel and bumping their fists together in a non-ironical bro greeting. “Combeferre is so smart, I could only imagine how fascinating his skull would be!”
> 
> “Is this Combeferre’s skull we’re talking about?” Enjolras is sounding positively distressed.
> 
>  
> 
> _Or the one where Courfeyrac is precious, Jehan is precious, pretty much everyone is precious but no one can still get their shit together. Also people are falling in love, yada yada._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here's some Jehan/Courf fluff but I promise the E/R is coming mostly from the next chapter. The poem that Jehan leaves at the tomb is shamelessly stolen from the Slope of Reverie, one of my favorite Victor Hugo's poems which is SO MUCH about Les Amis reincarnation and nothing you'll say is going to change my opinion.  
> Also if you feel like you've read the Courf's mums headcanon exactly copy-pasted somewhere, I posted the headcanon on Tumblr and now placed the identical extract here because I felt like it.  
> Also I don't know whether you can tell that I'm bullshitting my way through the protest but I'm pretty much bullshitting my way through the protest.  
> Please share your opinions with me, I'll be more than glad to read them. Thank you so much for reading and suggestions concerning the rest of the fic are always welcome!  
> WARNING: contains cemeteries and skulls but don't worry everything's merry and fluffy  
> Also the song Cemetery Gates by The Smiths is written for Jehan pass this on

“For the last time Courfeyrac I can’t sneak a human skull out of the anatomy lab to bring it to you so you can woo your poet!”

“You don’t understand it’s for _science_.”

Combeferre snorts maybe a bit too obviously on his coffee and Courfeyrac stands up, almost slamming an enormous textbook on the wooden table, burning in passionate turmoil as he usually does. “So that’s what’s left of our friendship.”

“What’s left of our friendship?” Combeferre asks calmly without raising his eyes from his own textbook he’s balancing on his knees while taking a sip of the amazing coffee the place serves. “Anything I should be mourning?”

“Yes,” Courfeyrac hisses dramatically. “My eternal devotion to our cause, one you have now lost. The bond we used to share, together in happiness and in sorrow, in peace and in war. The pieces of my broken heart you are unwilling to mend with your discriminative medical skills.”

“Cute, are these your wedding vows?” asks Bahorel with vast amusement, the third bagel for the day already in his hands but not for long.

“And how come Combeferre has abandoned the cause?” Feuilly who’s already occupied a small table and is now sitting positively knackered with his feet on another chair, serenely smoking another cigarette.

“The cause of friendship,” Courfeyrac sighs gravely, turning his dark curly head around with a swish. “The cause of _fraternity_. The vows we gave in primary school! Everything, he blew it in the air.” 

“There, there,” croons Combeferre in a rather merry voice, his eyes still on his textbook. “We all love you _well_ Courf…”

“Oh is that so,” Courfeyrac masters his best puppy face. “So you say you won’t help me confess my love to my precious little flower?”

“Oh man if Prouvaire ever hears you calling him that he’ll castrate you and dance to a dithyramb around your balls before throwing them in a bubblebath until the God of the Gay rises from the foam in a rather Botticellian manner,” Bahorel claps his hands, looking unbearably enthusiastic.

Enjolras raises his eyes from the table where he’d been tidying his notes until then and shoots his old and new friend an impatient look. “Are we done with Courfeyrac’s stormily love life yet? We have a meeting to start.”

“Relax, cap. We’re still short numbered anyway,” Bahorel, whose bagel is now but a nostalgic reminiscence in their young hearts, leans forward to ruffle Enjolras’ halo of golden curls. Enjolras doesn’t’ look more annoyed than he already did, it’s obvious that he’s grown particularly fond of the new members of their group and their scarlet opinions –

-or, in the case of today, neon orange.

“Very well,” Courfeyrac narrows his puppy eyes murderously, “just keep that in mind when I’m gone from your life and you regret every cruel obstacle that you set between me and my happiness, when you’ll think of _oh_ _what a gigantic asshole I was for not helping my dear friend Courfeyrac when he was in need and ceasing to be his best friend! Oh how lucky my friend Joly is to be still blessed with such a precious friendship, having decided to ease poor kind Courfeyrac’s pain!_ ”

“Oh how I’ll suffer,” Combeferre sighs gravely.

Joly, having heard his name turns around from the nearby table he’d occupied with Bossuet and eyes Courfeyrac with hesitant amusement mixed with a hint of good natured worry, his voice nasal and blocked. “What is it, Courfeyrac? Is everything alright?”

“Oh yes darling Joly everything is perfectly alright, just my friendship with Combeferre is going through a midlife crisis! In fact everything would be even better if you found me a human skull.”

“Oh how lovely! What for?” Joly flashes them a wide, cheerful smile behind his several scarves and just then a bald man stumbles into the café, trips over a barista and swears affectionately, fixing the barista’s apron and making an effort to wipe all the spilt hot coffee with a bunch of tissues he had been carrying. When he reaches the table Joly turns to him with almost teary eyes – nobody can tell whether they’re from the sixth cold he’s acquired this winter, or that he’s just touched. “My savior!” he says, stretching his hands at Bossuet, who shakes his bald head gravely. “Sorry, I brought your tissues but I used them all to wipe that coffee.”

Joly and Bossuet start bickering like an old married couple and Courfeyrac takes the opportunity to show that not only Enjolras is married to Combeferre, but to some extent he is as well, so he turns to his best friend. “Well I don’t need your _skull_ to be happy!”

“Hello Prouvaire,” Feuilly greets merrily, staring behind Courfeyrac’s shoulder and Courfeyrac freezes on the spot.

“Well, merde,” he murmurs through his teeth before turning around to meet the newcomers.

“How do you know you don’t need Combeferre’s skull to be happy?” Jehan asks cheerfully, grabbing a chair near Bahorel and bumping their fists together in a non-ironical bro greeting. “Combeferre is so smart, I could only imagine how fascinating his skull would be!”

“Is this Combeferre’s _skull_ we’re talking about?” Enjolras raises his head from his notes looking rather horrified, only to find that along with Jehan have appeared Grantaire and Éponine. His eyes catch Grantaire’s gaze for a split second, the man’s caught mid-sentence. Enjolras can’t hear what he’s saying but there’s a smile on his face that’s genuine and unusually warm as he speaks to his friends. Their eyes lock for what feels like a breath or two, they’re so blue and the smile seems to be freezing on his face for a while before he turns around and grabs a seat at the café where he works every day.

Just then the door of the café opens and their eyes all turn to meet with a newly arrived, visibly overwhelmed Marius, together with a girl they haven’t seen before.

Courfeyrac is the first to react, complete shock engraved on his face. “Why are you here?”

Marius stops in the middle of the room, confusion spreading over his face, gaze quickly turning to Combeferre who has apparently managed to scare him the most. “Shouldn’t I be?”

Courfeyrac rolls his eyes, clearly disappointed. “You were on a _date_ Marius, your fourth date!” he says mournfully, “you did the whole thing wrong. Where’ve all of our lessons gone? You should be somewhere _else_ doing something _else!_ ”

“Very smooth, Courf,” mutters Feuilly, nodding with approval.

“Actually he did pretty well,” the legendary Cosette stands on her tiptoes to pat Marius’ head encouragingly, earning a violent satisfied blush that disguises all of the freckles on Marius’ face. “He finally didn’t try to hold the door open for me,” she makes a pause where both Courfeyrac and Bossuet look positively horrified for the continuation of it. “In the bus.”

Courfeyrac stands up and takes a little bow. “Enchanté.”

Grantaire had seen Monsieur Valjean’s daughter once or twice, they had been introduced and he’d found her extremely likable. Éponine had happened to be visiting at the coffee shop one day and Grantaire had immediately sensed the tension between them – or to be honest, more diffused by Éponine herself. Turns out that Éponine’s shady parents had fostered Cosette for a short period of time after her mother fell a victim of HIV and their past together had been rather foggy. Grantaire hadn’t pressed his best friend to say more when every issue related to her family clearly wasn’t easy for her. When Éponine’s old neighbour, however, over whom she’d been swooning ever since she left her parents’ place to move with Jehan and Grantaire, and he left his own to move with some friend of his, came to beg for Cosette’s email address and Éponine reluctantly gave it to him before going to get herself completely wasted, Grantaire knew this wasn’t going to end up well.

All that Grantaire knows about Cosette he learnt from Marius during one of his ecstatic visits at their place to thank Éponine for saving his life and fill them up on every detail of their cavity-causing dates – or at least the clean versions. Cosette adores her father with all her being and does something in the fashion industry, Marius really doesn’t know exactly even after four dates. She is indeed beautiful, all doe eyes and perfect makeup, her blonde locks scattered with a few baby blue highlights. Her matching dress embraces her curvy, elegant figure beautifully, making her look as if she’s burst out of a Bouguereau painting. And most of all, she’s already getting along with everyone, ending up discussing politics with Jehan and Bahorel while Marius frantically eyes his friends, his expression on the verge of paranoia.

Grantaire feels Éponine tensing near him and his chest clenches tightly. Nobody else seems to notice, not even Jehan, and Grantaire knows that the best idea would be to take her and get out of the café. It’s never too late – or early, for that matter – to get drunk. Yet something he can’t quite identify is keeping him pinned on his seat and he hates to admit that it’s probably something about that odd, nonsensical group of people he hardly knows, held together not only by the passionate beliefs he does not share but also from a bond that reminds him of what a family should feel like.

“I hate her,” Éponine hisses in his ear and his hand instinctively comes to rest atop of her own and squeeze the equally callused, olive skin gently. Grantaire knows exactly how Éponine feels, he has seen her ache, he has held her while she cried and, most of all he knows what she’s been through and he swears that nobody can be stronger than she is.

“Look at her, you can’t hate her,” Grantaire murmurs in her ear, burying his nose in her tangled dark hair and placing a kiss on her pierced brow.

“I hate how I can’t hate her,” Éponine huffs and Grantaire passes gets up to head to the familiar bar, even though he doesn’t work right now.

“At least they’re not having sex,” Éponine murmurs quietly and Grantaire hates how he understands the twisted satisfaction such a stupid thought can give to one who’s lost every hope.

“You do realize that they will, sooner or later,” he mutters, hating himself for not really helping but, in one of his few sober moments, knowing that sugaring the pill won’t be the real effective solution for Éponine’s problem.

The girl snorts. “Yeah, orphic sex with doves of chastity descending from the heavens to levitate them to the clouds and entwine their souls in a coitus of tulle and soap bubbles.”

“Nah, she looks kinky,” mutters Grantaire, shuddering in horror. “Right, thanks for the mental image of a naked Pontmercy.”

“Screw you.”

“Come on, don’t be like that, I’m gonna make you some Irish coffee kay?” he murmurs before giving another squeeze to the hand he’s still holding. “Extra marshmallows.”

But he doesn’t need to, because Musichetta has already come to their table to take their order and Grantaire can only feel amused at the sight of the first victims that fall on the battlefield when he stands up and kisses her cheek. It’s a truth universally acknowledged that people have changed their preferred coffee shop, people have changed their university schedule and even their sexual orientation, people have even threatened to turned into young Werthers for Musichetta’s dark eyes, glowing chocolate skin and breathtaking curves, but she’s too busy being a genius and casually winning philosophy competitions one after the other to notice them. So when Grantaire sees those two people he hasn’t yet been introduced to grabbing each other’s hands and gasping for breath at their friendly greeting, he has to try hard not to laugh in affectionate pity for their poor tormented souls, but not for long because the bald one is so overwhelmed that he somehow manages to spill Enjolras’ coffee on the red nose guy and chaos ensues because the red nose guy – apparently he’s called Joly and he's half-Chinese, as Grantaire gathers later – is crying something about second-degree burns and Musichetta is clearly making a huge effort not to laugh her ass off as she helps them with several napkins.

When she leaves to make their coffees, fiercely declining Grantaire’s voluntary help, Joly and Bossuet literally tackle him on his seat, flustered and breathless. “Will you introduce us to the lady?” they both ask at the same time and Grantaire gathers it’s a very odd friendship the two of them have.

“Sorry boys, Chetta’s pretty out of your league.”

“Talk for his favor for I’m adorable!” scowls Bossuet.

Joly looks at Bossuet and silence falls in the table until Joly snorts “Look at your dumb face,” and starts giggling uncontrollably and Bossuet proceeds in apologizing to everyone and everything that’s willing to listen and moan about his coffee ruined pants.

“Dude you can’t expect a chick to fall for you with _corduroy,_ ” Bahorel gets into the conversation and Joly bursts into a new fit of giggles, probably because he’s thinking of that book he saw the other day and he’s literally picturing Bahorel in speedos and several yellow baby chickens resting on his biceps.

“By the way nice shirt, Bahorel,” Courfeyrac says sarcastically to the man trying to give fashion advice, obviously shuddering at the shocking shade of neon orange and reconsidering his choices in friends and their fashion choices.

“Thanks man,” Bahorel says cheerfully and turns to Jehan and Bossuet again. “What you need is _leather_. I’ll tell you the best shop, they’ll turn your ass into an angel-sculpted, sun-kissed squishy masterpiece that will make Jim Morrison spin at Pere Lachaise!”

Joly has now ceased laughing, solemnly noting the address on his phone, while Bossuet leans into Grantaire’s side. “So you’re the triumvirate’s new neighbours right?” he asks with an infectious, understanding smile. “How’s the cohabitation going?”

“I don’t know, well enough I guess?” Grantaire shrugs his shoulders “I mean, apart from when Courfeyrac thinks it’s okay to wander at the corridors half-naked and do all the voices of Bohemian Rhapsody at once. At least Combeferre seems like the normal one.” Suspicion downs Grantaire and he leans closer to Bossuet conspiratorially, watching the bespectacled man who’s fervently discussing something with Feuilly.

Bossuet snorts. “Yeah, if you consider normal that he stalks people behind their shoulders in the metro so that he can read their books, or that his life ambition is to create an iPhone app which will help him trace and contact extraterrestrial life.”

Grantaire pauses for a while. “Not normal,” he judges eventually.

“What about your friend though? Not the one who looks like Khal Drogo. The um, ginger one.”

“Feuilly?” A sinister smile slowly spreads on Grantaire’s face.

“Yeah, he looks pretty normal. Aside from the hair-skin contrast, I mean.”

“Just be quiet for a minute,” Grantaire instructs so they stop speaking. Soon Combeferre and Feuilly’s conversation sounds clear enough to realize that they’re both fanboying about Anaximander’s theory from which Bossuet gathers something about planets being in circular tubes around Earth and people seeing part of the fire through tiny holes.

“Oh,” the man says blankly.

“Yeah, oh,” Grantaire nods.

“What about Enjolras?” Joly joins in the conversation rather cheerfully and Grantaire freezes on spot. Now _that’s_ a very good question, which Grantaire can’t really answer, not even to himself.

 _Especially_ to himself.

“Uh I have no idea?” he says carefully. “I mean, he pretty much fits the clichés, doesn’t he? He looks rich enough, his parents cut him out oh-what-a-woe, law student naively trying to save the abased and deliver their tormented souls without really asking them first, another white guy fighting against white supremacy…”

“Grantaire,” Joly interrupts him with a kind, half-disapproving, half-condescending tone. “Have you heard Enjolras speak?”

“Believe me, more than I’d ever bargained for in first place…”

“No,” the medical student holds up a hand, his eyes as serious as his cold. “I mean, have you heard Enjolras _speak_?”

Grantaire barely even manages to ask Joly what he means because a particularly fed up Enjolras whose presence had been almost forgotten up to that point stands up and almost everyone goes silent. “We can get started whenever you’re ready,” he says without spite to his friends though his patience is obviously exhausted. His red lips are pressed to a thin line and his brow is creased, several golden curls rebelliously escaping his ponytail and Grantaire feels momentarily sick for having the thoughts he currently has. The familiar café suddenly feels warm, so do his cheeks and he just realizes how dry his mouth is. Combeferre imposes silence all around and stands up to join his best friend, opening a dossier full of notes on the table in front of them, and all that Grantaire needs is a drink and he needs it now. “Here, have your caffeine,” Courfeyrac’s expression becomes serious and dedicated from one moment to the other and he stands up as well, handing a steamy mug of coffee which Enjolras accepts gratefully and downs in two sips before beginning to speak.

“So, we have a problem. Despite our efforts we still haven’t managed to obtain permission for the demonstration. Bossuet, have you contacted the municipality again?”

“I have,” Bossuet shrugs his shoulders apologetically, “but no luck.”

“We have sent several angry emails to the secretary and we always get the same bureaucratic response,” Courfeyrac creases his brow and goes through his phone again, double checking. “It’s no use.”

“That’s infringement of free speech!” protests Marius fervently.

“Of course it is,” Feuilly says tiredly. “It’s neither the first nor the last time.”

Enjolras, lost in deep thought, turns to Combeferre. “Any news from the École de Médecine?”

“Nothing new since what I told you in the morning,” Combeferre turns to him. “Though the response is pretty encouraging.”

“We have a rather active community,” agrees Joly.

Grantaire really is not sure whether he can deal with this right now. _Fuck this,_ he thinks, his hand reaching for the flask on his hip, Bahorel’s gift on his first birthday after they started kickboxing together, and takes a thirsty sip. Then another.

“The Drama students have been really active lately too, though I can’t say they’re organized.” Courfeyrac.

“Feuilly, what about your syndicate?” Combeferre’s voice.

“Unfortunately not very successful. There are other issues…”

“I’ve contacted La Resistance des Femmes,” Bahorel. “We have full participation. I can’t say the same for the Painarchy members.”

“What’s their problem?”

“They have a longer history with the cops than we do. They want to keep it down for a while.”

For Grantaire it’s a haze. Nothing makes sense, only Éponine twitching on his side as Cosette leans to kiss the tip of Marius’ nose, he wishes he could see something in all this but he can’t, the room’s blurry and he needs another drink, his lips feel dry and his flask too empty as he brings it to his mouth again, feeling sweat dampening his temple.

“Grantaire?” It’s Enjolras’ voice that brings him back to reality and the next thing he knows is that painfully perfect, youthful face staring straight at him and the voices cease around him, Enjolras’ eyes glowing dangerously while Grantaire’s pulse is trying to make his head explode and spill brains and disgusting guts all over Bossuet’s already ruined corduroy.

“Yes, Apollo?” he eventually manages to smile coolly, slowly drowning the last sip from his flask.

“Are you drinking alcohol?”

“Alcohol?” Grantaire pretends to be looking through the rim of his flask with evident shock. “Oh mon dieu look, I’ve been cruelly deceived!” he brings a hand to his heart. “That old lady at Champs de Mars sold it to me for Felix Felicis!”

“This is not a place for drunkenness, Grantaire,” Enjolras says coldly, clearly unamused.

Grantaire briefly wonders how it would feel to see that self-assured look which can so easily kill him and forever keep on killing him drop from Enjolras’ marble face one day, how it would feel for his wax wings to suddenly melt and for the Sun to become Icarus for a day. He immediately feels horrible after that, the aftertaste of the drink lingers in his mouth, rotten and disgusting, and he hates himself, he hates every polluting breath that he takes. “Well excuse you but I pretty much work here,” he smirks bitterly. “I absolutely _loathe_ to be breaking your self-asserted yet godly rules, but this really _is_ a place for drunkenness. Believe me, I know that since I set the tradition myself several months ago!”

Enjolras’ disgusted expression gives a masochistic pleasure to Grantaire. He’s feeling slightly sick to his head but he’s still far from drunk, _so far from it,_ and he thinks he’s just discovered his new favorite poison. “I’m feeling bad for your employer.”

“Dad values Grantaire’s work a lot, thanks for your concern.” Nobody had expected Cosette’s shockingly cold intervention that makes Éponine growl incorrigibly near Grantaire, and manages even to make Enjolras retreat.

“Cosette, I didn't mean...” he says reluctantly, uncomfortably flushed.

“Nobody meant what we fucking thought they meant okay?” Courfeyrac tries to diffuse the tension.

“Well the thing is…”

“Enjolras let Grantaire drink if he wants, we’ve all had a beer or two in the past,” Combeferre’s voice is warning and Grantaire feels like it’s threatening instead of defending him. “Everything’s cool, now let’s get on with it…”

“Everything cool my ass,” Grantaire hears his own caustic voice. He can feel all eyes turning on him but he doesn’t give a fuck because this is ridiculous, the whole thing is completely laughable. “You’re organizing an illegal demonstration,” he looks around incredulously but he isn’t met with sympathetic gazes. “What the fuck has the lot of you been smoking?”

“Your relationship with the law had never been particularly devoted in first place,” Jehan raises an eyebrow and suddenly Grantaire feels angry at him, feels angry at everyone. They’ve been together through everything, they have a Common Code when it comes to stuff and now he’s fucking around too, passionate, naïve Jean Prouvaire whose world is an unrealistic epic poem.

“That’s different, you won’t only end your sorry asses in jail but those of other participants too…”

“Do you think we haven’t thought of the necessary precautions?” Courfeyrac asks.

“We’ve done it before Grantaire,” Joly assures him, his general worry completely absent from his confident exclamation.

“Oh so you’ve done it before,” cackles Grantaire, before turning to Combeferre, whose expression remains rigidly unreadable. “And you?” his voice comes out almost accusing.

“What about me?” Combeferre asks coldly, cutting Grantaire’s mid-air.

“Won’t you say something? Won’t you stop him?”

Enjolras opens his mouth to respond furiously but Combeferre’s voice comes out numbing. “Why should I stop him?”

“Let me get this straight,” snorts Grantaire, “are you in favor of a protest without permit?”

“That’s more of a reason to protest against a corrupted state, don’t you think?” The silence that falls is palpable. There’s something about Combeferre’s voice that can smash you like a bug under the sole of his brogue that makes them all shudder. Marius looks ready to cry. “Now, may we go on with our meeting?”

Grantaire wonders whether a gaze can burn through his skin and turn him into a pile of fucking ash already because if he were to die of Enjolras’ eyes he breathlessly realizes it would be the biggest fucking privilege and he would most willingly have it right now.

*

There are those mornings when it just seems impossible.

Jehan opens his eyes when his alarm goes off and he does an effort, he really does, but he’s so cold and only greyness that doesn’t really let him breathe can be seen from the window. It’s not only that it’s really early, it’s not only that he wants to sleep a bit more. It’s also physically impossible to even move a hand and snooze. He shivers under the covers and curls into a ball, his gaze like steel outside the window. He lays there for a while in a state between consciousness and unconsciousness, before his eyelids fall heavy again.

When he wakes up in an empty apartment a couple of hours later he has the groggy feeling of someone who’s abused his sleeping patterns – not that he has ever had any.

It takes considerable effort to stand up, carrying the duvet around his shoulders and move to the kitchen, where he doesn’t bother making anything more than a cup of tea. Sipping slowly he sits with his notebook on the table, biting the cap of his pen and begging for his mind to start cooperating again. The gloomy sight outside the window combined with the traffic sounds of the midday hardly prove to be of help. He’s already tearing the sheet of paper and crumpling it in his fist before he ends up spending what feels like ages staring at a blank page. He knows he can’t do it today, he knows it’s just a bad day, yet the more that he thinks of it, the more he tries and the more he fails, or rather his words fail him woefully, the more it’s wearing him off and there is nothing more fucked up he can think of.

He’s thinking of relocating himself to the couch which he already knows will make everything worse and spend the day feeling sorry for himself, when there is a knock at the door. He can easily pretend he’s not here, he thinks; he could have gotten up when he should and gone to class. Without taking his gaze away from the wall opposite him, he murmurs a dull ‘shit’ and stands up, deciding that someone may be in need of something. If it is Bahorel who’s skipped class and wants to watch Fight Club again, he’ll just find an excuse. He’ll say that someone died. Maybe that Grantaire’s cat died.

He’s feeling half guilty for poor Maenad, who’s busy trying to rip his pyjama pants as he stands up to open the door and causes her to jump back on the floor and hiss.

The whole of Paris seems to stop breathing or so he feels when he finds himself faced with the last person he expects to see standing on the doorway and the one he’s the least prepared for right now. The whole feeling of malaise takes a completely different turn, settling in his stomach and causing his heart to flip in his chest. That he most definitely didn’t settle for.

*

The first thought that comes to Courfeyrac’s mind is that Jehan is sick. The first thing that he does is to phrase it.

“Thanks,” the smaller man answers with a tired smile, dark circles under his eyes, auburn strands of hair escaping his fishtail braid. “Assure your inner Joly though that I’m perfectly healthy, not likely to start spitting blood in some lace handkerchief anytime soon.”

Courfeyrac takes a moment before he decides to believe him. Something’s obviously off and his chest aches at the sense of it yet the poet manages to captivate him in every way, from his bare feet that peek under his huge pyjama pants, to the cardigan that makes him look so small, the distant expression in his gentle eyes and the hoarse, deep voice that contrasts heavily with his general appearance. “Didn’t you have class today?”

Jehan raises an eyebrow. “Didn’t you?”

Courfeyrac raises an eyebrow. “Touché”. They stay silent waiting at the door for a few seconds or minutes or maybe decades, he can’t really tell because he could spend the rest of the day staring at Jehan without the tiniest complaint. The corridor, however, is cold as balls so he clears his throat. “Am I interrupting anything?”

Jehan quickly shakes his head, waving the possibility away with this hand. “Just an essay. Stupid,” he mutters. “Essay.”

He feels something heavy falling in his chest, cursing his usual optimism for leading him in the wrong place at the wrong moment. “Oh,” he says, “because the others are at school and I was wondering whether there was anyone here because let’s face it, it would be really sad to take brunch alone.”

“Brunch,” says Jehan incredulously, “seriously.” Courfeyrac doesn’t expect him to crack a smile, and when it happens it’s infectious. He eventually steps back into the apartment, “come on in. It’s so pretentious that it’s beautiful.”

“You sure?” Courfeyrac hesitates for a second there, but then immediately peers in the cold apartment and shuts the door behind him, his insides bursting with triumph and excitement. “I mean, you can still change your mind but I was considering brownies in a mug…”

Jehan stands in the middle of the room, seemingly lost in deep thought before he proceeds in nodding slowly. “You know what, I think I like you,” he says in all seriousness, and Courfeyrac knows his stomach had never done that twisting thing before for such a stupid reason. They head to the kitchen where Maenad is staring at them before curving her back and meowing angrily. Courfeyrac, naturally affectionate with animals, kneels on the floor to pet her but she hisses and exposes her teeth. “Don’t mind Maenad,” hums Jehan, opening the cupboards and looking for ingredients. “She’s a darling creature and we all love her,” Courfeyrac really can’t see how, “but I’d always preferred a lobster. Gerard de Nérval was right when he said they were peaceful and tranquil creatures…” 

“You don’t seem very peaceful and tranquil yourself,” Courfeyrac grins mischievously, joining him at the counter, finding a bowl and a spoon as Jehan fishes the bowl with the cocoa from a messy cupboard. “What would Grantaire’s opinion on the matter be it if he heard you though?”

“I don’t know,” he murmurs. “Grantaire should reconsider his life choices anyway.”

“What are even our friends?” sighs Courfeyrac gravely, finding two mugs between the rest of the cutlery, a Might Be Vodka one, and another shaped like Darth Vader’s head. Then he turns to Jehan again. “No, I’ll do the rest. You go to your room, work on that stupid essay of yours.”

“Is that a command?”

Jehan has turned around and their heads are so close. Courfeyrac can’t help but stare at the asterism of freckles scattered on his nose and cheekbones and forgets how to breathe for a while. Then his fingers come to brush a strand of the braid off Jehan’s forehead. “I like this hair color,” he murmurs. “I like every hair color.” He immediately realizes this has probably not been the wisest of compliments but the faint blush that it brings on Jehan’s face is totally worth it.

“I’ll keep that in mind whenever I pick a hair color,” he breathes, and Courfeyrac can’t really tell whether he’s teasing him or not because he’s way too lost in his soft scent of gardenia and strawberries.

When the brownies are ready and into the mugs, he finds Jehan into his room, sitting cross-legged on his bed and scribbling furiously. His hair is pulled into a bun on the top of his head and there is ink all over his chin and nose. He can hardly prevent himself from swooning, and it doesn’t even feel as pathetic as he’d always expected it, only twice as exciting and painful at the same time.

“Bless your sweet soul,” the man raises his head and gives him a thankful smile, throwing his arms and doing grabby hands for his mug. Courfeyrac takes a seat on the bed next to him.

He could live the rest of his life in this place, he decides. He can see clearly now who’s arranged the decoration of the living room as this tiny room is its miniature. Piles of old books take all of the space of the floor and even half of the bed, a window with a few pots of odd little plants of questionable identity on the ledge, fairy lights hanging unevenly from the walls, one of which is filled with tickets, photos of trips breathtaking sketches signed with a capital R and abstract watercolors that Courfeyrac is almost sure Jehan has done himself. And most importantly it smells so much of the young poet, an intoxicating mixture of a fresh, premature spring and the melancholy of a winter that’s slowly dying.

The man sitting beside him must probably have been famished, as he clears his mug in less than a minute, putting Courfeyrac of all people off competition. Jehan is now fully dressed, he notices, patterns always clashing and colors making zero sense at all. His colorful sweater is huge and his dungarees even more, his bony wrists peeking from the knit sleeves, the neckline hanging just beneath his collarbones. Courfeyrac’s pulse picks up when he notices the calligraphic words hugging his bones like a necklace. “May I?” he asks breathlessly, pointing at the tattoo but before he’s managed to touch the soft skin, Jehan’s own fingers are lowering the sweater.

_O ease my heart of verse and let me rest._

His fingertips are aching to touch the smooth skin, to trace the ink on the bone – that must probably have hurt as fuck – and press his kiss on the hollow just there, on the base of his neck, feel him quiver beneath his lips. Courfeyrac is in love and he can barely hide his distress about it.

“Um… it’s not Shakespeare, is it?” he makes an admirable effort. “I mean, it’s English,” he rushes to add, immediately mentally cursing himself.

Jehan cracks a smile. “Keats,” is his answer. Right. Of course.

“Do you have any others?” Courfeyrac hears himself asking and he already knows it’s a _bad_ idea because he used to be so smooth, when did he stop being smooth and became a mixture of Enjolras and Combeferre at their worse instead?

Maybe it’s not only Grantaire who should reconsider his life choices.

Without a word, Jehan raises the sleeve of his sweater and Courfeyrac realizes he’d never noticed the leaves and thorns that twirl around his delicate wrist, the rose that wraps the back of his hand and meddles with the visible veins. Before he’s able to control himself, Courfeyrac’s fingers are tracing the ink on Jehan’s wrist, feeling his pulse pounding softly under the soft skin. Jehan slowly raises his eyes and stares at him. “I have more, you know” he mutters with a small smile that Courfeyrac is sure is supposed to end him, and he remembers once again Jean Prouvaire’s skills in teasing people to their deaths. Before he’s able to mutter another word, Jehan’s fingers are wrapped around his own wrist, and rather intensely. “Let’s go for a bike ride,” he says in an unusually low voice. “I’ll go mad if I stay in here a bit more.”

Courfeyrac feels pleasantly surprised which soon turns to considerably excited which soon turns to internally screaming. Their heads both instinctively turn at the greyness outside the window, a sight which every Parisian is very well accustomed to. “Sure,” he shrugs, summoning his brogues which are somewhere under the bed with his socked toes. “Any ideas?”

“Oh yes, _lots!_ ” Prouvaire smirks, and Courfeyrac knows he should have been prepared.

*

The skies are white and opaque, the streets shining in the mist of the rain that dried overnight. People are pacing quickly on the pavements and they cycle between the cars. Jehan is feeling much more himself now that the cool wind is stroking his face and playing freely with his hair. He hasn’t ridden his bike for so long and he had almost forgotten how he loved the certainty of his fingers around the handles, how fond he had been of the lavender paint that Grantaire had used on the old vehicle years ago when they’d first met and made their first baby steps in getting to know the world together, before they’d moved to their apartment and helped each other settle and deal with everything that surrounded them, or at least tried to with some help from Bob Dylan. 

They cycle on Boulevard de Ménilmontant without speaking because they don’t really need to, for Jehan it’s coming so natural even though the both of them are particularly talkative when it comes to issues they’re passionate about. With Courfeyrac whose friend he’s slowly learning to be, every moment feels right and that’s what he adores about him, every moment feels safe, even the agonizing pounding of his heart when skin touches skin feels safe as if it has always been there, or as if he’s found everything he’d lost in a bloody battlefield where he fought to see the future behind a blindfold. They cycle alongside each other without uttering a word, just their laughter and fast breaths and Paris dancing around them even after the rain – _especially after the rain_ – always a moveable feast.

“Here we are,” Jehan says almost panting, his brow covered in sweat under his colorful woolen braided beanie. They stop and park their bicycles. Courfeyrac looks stunning, Jehan wants – _needs –_ to fill a hundred of notebooks with words about him, words dancing on a paper unable to convey that exact flame in his eyes and the magical melody of his laughter, yet Jehan wants a lifetime to _try_ and scribble until he gets him right, until he gets to touch the other man in all the right ways and properly feel him inside him, and then the both of them would just lie on a page, easy as that and natural as breathing. And it would finally all be as it should be.

*

“This… this is a cemetery.”

“It’s the Père Lachaise,” Jehan nods fervently, his face all lit up, nothing to be compared to his earlier appearance.

“A cemetery. ”

“Well yes?”

“There are dead people in it,” Courfeyrac eventually says blankly.

“That’s the general idea, yeah.” Jehan has raised an eyebrow and Courfeyrac really doesn’t fucking know but Jehan is stretching out his hand for him and Courfeyrac really has no choice but to wrap his fingers around those cold ones and follow him inside, a shiver running visibly down his spine because this is fucked up, _this is so fucked up._

But then Courfeyrac relaxes because he’s with Jehan and that makes things okay, in fact it makes everything more than okay, everything makes sense, everything fits, _of course_ it is a cemetery, because what place would be cooler to hang out and there’s pretty trees and pretty cobblestone and pretty graves and ravens that croak – well fuck this shit. He didn’t just say _pretty graves_. He most definitely didn’t.  

But maybe he did, because everything’s pretty, everything’s beautiful, there’s something eerie and peaceful in the air, completed with the smoky darkness of the clouds and the cleanness of the cobblestone that doesn’t end where they eye can reach. Jehan is pacing among the graves with quiet veneration in his face, his dark purple coat hanging on his body almost gracefully, his braid resting around the gentle curve of his neck like that of a chaste Persephone begging to be set completely free yet at the same time he is, he is free and youthful, almost immortal, Courfeyrac looks at him and he knows that his respectful composure is the very same thing as jumping around the tombstones, laughing and dancing like only he could ever do, in a party full of old friends, lost and found. It is indeed glorious, watching him as they stand before Oscar Wilde and the messenger with the vertical wings, before the graceful, dark peace that is Proust’s marble, they hold their breaths before Delacroix and their fingers entwine. And then there’s Édith Piaf and Georges Melies where Courfeyrac has to try hard not to cry but it’s Jehan who sheds a silent tear and takes off the kitsch plastic flower he’s wearing on his braid to place on the base of Gérard de Nerval’s obelisk, and it’s not a vile act, only one of pure dedication.

They’re silent and walking hand in hand. Courfeyrac wishes it would mean more but it doesn’t, he knows it doesn’t. They’re sharing this and it’s enough, it’s more than enough because for once again they don’t need to talk and it’s just their footsteps as Jehan leads him to Abelard and Héloise where they sit cross legged on the floor while Jehan whispers the tragic story of the medieval lovers in his ear. Courfeyrac then watches as Jehan tears a page from his notebook and folds it in half, before carefully placing it at the crypt.

“What was that?” he asks after they walk out of the cemetery and climb on their bikes for the nearest metro station, something tightening oddly in his chest.

“Tradition says that those who seek true love must leave their letters here, in tribute to Aberald and Heloise,” the man simply replies.

Courfeyrac doesn’t ask another question while they carry their bikes at the metro. “Let’s not go home just yet,” Jehan says and it’s almost pleading, as if his life depends on staying outside. Courfeyrac has absolutely no intention of returning at his apartment and his responsibilities, and somehow they end up heading to the Abbesses station.

It’s late in the afternoon and a few stray sunrays are fighting their way out of the grey clouds. It’s a truth universally acknowledged that Courfeyrac photosynthesizes and he gets impossibly excited at the hint of warmth on his face. They take their bikes all the way to the parc of Buttes Chaumont 

Courfeyrac can’t remember having witnessed so much beauty in a single day before. They walk around the garden, by the fairytale lakes full with ducks, the late afternoon sun now glimmering on the water and warming their skin. Jehan takes off his coat and stays in his jumper and floral jeans and Courfeyrac rolls the sleeves of his electric blue sweater. They end up eating sandwiches on the fairytale green landscape. Jehan is talkative now, his head thrown back and his eyes shut, chatting about this or that. Courfeyrac decides that the smaller man is full of contrasts in everything he does, full of excess and passion, as he tells him of his fervent opinions, what angers him, his friendship with Grantaire and Éponine, his family and his house at the Provence.

“My parents apparently had a bet pool for when I’d come out,” he chuckles, poking the grass with a small brunch. “Dad won so they did that trip to Morocco.”

“My mother knew since I was a teen but never wanted to say a word because she didn’t want to affect my decisions in any way until I discovered myself.”

Jehan chuckles softly. “What about your dad?”

“Well there is no dad,” Courfeyrac says simply with a smile on his face and Jehan’s features freeze momentarily.

“Shit sorry…”

“No actually there _is_ no dad because there are two moms, see?”

Jehan doesn’t need time to process this information, not even a second because he’s already smiling and Courfeyrac finds himself talking about his loving family and his childhood where he learnt to accept love and to give it, to shove their example in the face of every homophobe that tried to convince others that “homosexual relationships and families can’t function”, never forced to try anything or to be like anybody, encouraged to experiment and to embrace everything that came to him. He’s suddenly telling Jehan all about the equality protests and parades his moms took him at ever since he was a little boy, about the nights he sneaked in their bed after a scary nightmare and the karaoke nights, the way they always encouraged him when he professed his love for the theatre career. He’s talking about how beautiful his mothers are when the three of them still go out at the park, in their pastel floral dresses or their ’90s levi’s and sweaters or blazers and brogues and ties, and most of all he talks of all the times when his mothers homed Enjolras whenever he had a fight with his parents and ran away from home, or Combeferre whenever he simply needed a small break by his beloved but huge and sometimes distracting family, and all of them baking cookies and helping the kids make their first steps in forming a human rights group.

Jehan is mesmerized when Courfeyrac stops speaking to draw in a breath and sip his coke, and the brunet somehow finds the opportunity to blurt out: “What did you write to Abelard and Heloise?”

And without any hesitation or complexity, Jehan simply takes out his notebook and settles it on Courfeyrac’s knees. His fingers with the pencil move quickly over the paper and the sun is falling on it just on the right angle.

_Then I saw their trembling features warp and, gradually,_  
 _Their foreheads turn pale and dissolve in front of me,_  
 _And everyone, like a stream that flows into a sea,_  
 _Became completely lost in a dark immensity._


	4. Did you see the stylish kids in the riot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The other day I told Courf about my sewing classes and he went all ‘please Cosette, I’ve known that for over a year’!”
> 
> “Well of course he did,” Marius states, matter-of-factly.
> 
> “Courf and I met a week ago.”
> 
> “Well I might have... cared for you for a _little_ longer, you already know that.”
> 
> “If by saying cared for me you mean downright stalking," Cosette raises her eyebrow. "I dread the stuff your friends know about me,” she sighs gravely.
> 
> “Only bad stuff,” she says seriously.
> 
> “Oh I’m glad!" she smirks. "You probably already knew my taste in underwear back then!”
> 
> “Brazilian cut, lilac lace with tiny daisies,” Marius provides her very seriously, causing her to choke on her lemonade.
> 
>  
> 
> _Or the one with the leather pants, the fashion blogs, the coffee shops, the padlocks, and all the clichés of the world._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter absolutely exhausted me and still everything's off about it, I'm not satisfied at all. Sorry for that I'll try harder in the next ones :(  
> So as you can probably see I made an effort to write Marius and Cosette because I love them so fucking much but they had always scared me to write and it's my first actual scene of them, so I'd especially appreciate your opinion on it.  
> I want to show my stunning-chubby-Cosette headcanon if you can't already tell, but I really suck at phrasing everything correctly because I've always been bony myself and I can't really do this ugh, please tell me if everything's wrong or disrespectful the way I phrase it, because I'm in love with this Cosette and I don't want to fuck up.  
> The title is from the song Time for Heroes by The Libertines because Courfeyrac and Cosette and Joly's leather pants and Bahorel's neon so yeah.  
> Opinions and constructive criticism are always more than welcome, thank you so much for keeping up with this, it means more than the world to me! <3

“Are you sure this is good for your blood circulation?” Joly asks uncertainly, trying to stretch his legs into the impossibly tight pair of black shiny leather pants.

“Yeah, no need to worry,” the leather trousers that Bahorel has on have a shocking shade of red that gives off a questionable impression as it sticks around his firm thighs. He’s leaning casually against the stash of leather jackets through which Courfeyrac is browsing, looking too big in his hipster vest and tattoos compared to the small dark shop. “You’ll have your hot barista swooning with these in no time.”

“I really hope it’s worth it then,” Joly pants, finally fitting himself in the leather pants and looking quite breathless.

“Chill out Joly, and watch the master,” Bossuet is doing an impressive impersonation of Beyoncé in the remarkably well fitting shiny trousers of his, until he inevitably loses his balance and trips off a t-shirt stash.

“You have a fine ass,” Joly says with mild surprise, as if the deepest secrets of the universe have finally been revealed to him.

“I daresay the same goes for you,” Bossuet straightens his posture and his dignity, winking to a cheerful and slightly blushing Joly. “I’d tap that booty.”

“Courf are you twerking your ass to snapchat Jehan the pants?”

“I’m _not_ twerking my ass!”

“So let me get this straight, you’re both complimenting each other on your asses and buying leather trousers to go out with the same girl.”

Joly and Bossuet exchange a puzzled glance. “Uh, yeah?”

“And that’s completely normal isn’t it?”

“Uh…”

“SO WHAT IF I’M TWERKING MY ASS!”

*

“So that’s the way it is,” Éponine mutters, her arms crossed on her chest as she stands near the table staring at the human skull sitting there as if her eyes will burn through it and make it disappear.

“That’s the way it is,” Grantaire sighs, his brow creased, his eyes trying to avoid Jehan’s new friend who’s giving them a rather _hollowed_ look.

“Screw you all,” says Jehan merrily, taking the skull in his hands and patting it gently before retreating to the couch.

“Did you fall in love with Courfeyrac because of this?” Éponine joins him, giving the skull an evil eye before taking the laptop on her knees.

Jehan blushes violently and avoids her glance. “Stop making assumptions,” he murmurs, placing the skull on the coffee table. Maenad hisses at it and tries to throw it on the floor with a paw but Jehan shoots her The Look that is the only thing which can make the poor cat curve her back and retreat behind the toilet in the bathroom which is her favorite corner.

“If he fucks up with you I’ll gut him,” she growls as Grantaire grabs a beer and squeezes himself between them on the couch.

“This guy’s giving me the creeps,” he shivers.

“His name’s Theofile.”

Grantaire snorts his beer out of his nose and quickly takes his eyes away from the skull, turning them on the laptop instead “What’s that?” he asks Éponine , who’s staring on the screen with a frozen look on her face.

“I’m stalking her blog.”

“Whose blog?” Jehan looks at them interestedly.

Éponine's eyes are still and glowing, reflecting the light of the screen. Her voice comes out merely as a whisper. “’sette’s.”

“What?” Grantaire leans closer to the screen.

“Cosette’s.”

“Oh,” Jehan’s voice grows silent. “She a fashion blogger after all?”

“And a popular one,” Éponine murmurs hoarsely, scrolling down. “She has thousands of followers, for fuck’s sake.” She hesitates for a moment as if she doesn’t even want her best friends to look at her, as though she’s afraid that she’ll lose them too. Then she turns the screen of the laptop for them to see.

They’d never have believed it, not that it was that hard but still, Cosette is stunning, smiling at the lens in the most wonderful outfits, eccentric, romantic, elegant or tough, her hair all the different pastel colors, gorgeous patterns and shades against her skin in which she looks confident to be, unique designs and shapes that go together so well and then they read that they’re _her_ designs and Grantaire can’t breathe from the awesomeness.

“Look at those rainbow kitten heels,” Jehan almost squeals. “Can I have them all please?”

They immediately swallow their tongues and Jehan clears his throat.

“She’s fucking wonderful,” Éponine croaks, strolling through the pictures mechanically. “Look, she’s taking the time to reply to all those comments and comment to other bloggers to believe in themselves and love their bodies…” her voice is breaking and Grantaire can’t stand watching her like that. “I never stood a chance in first place did I?”

“You don’t have to compare yourself to anyone love,” he wraps his arms around her curling figure and pulls her closer between his knees. “Marius was just dumb not to see how you felt for him.”

Jehan stands up and kneels before Éponine, placing his hands on her bare ankles and stroking her skin with his thumbs. “Marius wasn’t dumb,” he says softly, “Marius fell in love but maybe it just wasn’t meant to be that way.” Éponine opens her mouth to protest but Jehan hushes her, cupping her face and forcing her to look at him. “It will come to you when it’s meant to. You’re perfect Ponine.”

“You’re perfect,” Grantaire presses his lips on her brow, tasting a salty tear that’s always silent as she swallows her sobs and never lets it show. “And no one is going to replace you.”

“You’re strong…”

“I need to be alone, okay?” she says hoarsely and they’re ready to leave her to it exchanging worried glances behind her back, after all she’s heard everything before and they all know nothing will change. Her phone buzzes from somewhere near. “I can’t deal with Parnasse’s shit,” she says to Grantaire, who nods. “Answer, say I’m in the bathroom. Say I died, for all I care.”

It’s Jehan who takes her phone in his hand and frowns. “Unknown number,” he says.

“Pick it up.”

Jehan answers the phone and they remain silent as they hear him mutter one-word replies before handing it to her. She waves her hands in horror, completely unwilling to talk to whoever it is but he insists with a shake of his head. “It’s Gavroche’s teacher,” he mouths and she freezes, eventually taking the phone in her hand and standing up to go to the other room.

The two of them remain in the living room, exchanging worried glances at the sound of Éponine's muffled voice through the shut door. “Are you okay?” Grantaire asks eventually as Jehan retreats from the effort and starts fumbling with a tearing button on his cardigan. “Because you really don’t seem okay, and if Courfeyrac has been fucking with your feelings I don’t fucking care if he showers you with all the skulls or the flowers of the world but I’ll roast his sorry ass and serve it to him with barbeque sauce.”

“Courf’s really great,” Jehan murmurs, inspecting the purple varnish that’s fading from his nails. “You just… you know how I get sometimes,” he cracks a smile, raising his warm brown eyes to look at Grantaire.

“I know how you get, that’s why I worry,” Grantaire lightly bumps Jehan’s knee with his own.

“You don’t need to worry,” Jehan turns his head and nuzzles in the crook of Grantaire’s neck. “The question is, are _you_ okay?” Grantaire ignores his intense gaze. “Don’t think that I haven’t noticed how you’re keeping up lately.”

“If you’re talking about my painting project…”

“I’m not talking about your painting project, R,” Jehan sighs, carefully counting every word. “I’m talking about the beers in the fridge…”

“Oh have you been counting?” Grantaire asks sarcastically.

“Hey come on, I haven’t been counting but you know you can talk to us and we can do this together, you know you don’t even have to try alone…”

“There’s nothing for us to do, Jehan,” Grantaire pulls his hand away a little more snappily than he’d intended to, already feeling guilty at his friend’s hurt expression. “Look,” he says in a softer tone, “we’ve discussed this before okay? We’re not gonna lecture each other, you set that rule and we’re gonna ask for help if we need to.”

“Sure,” Jehan nods softly, “so is everything ok?”

“Yes Jehan,” Grantaire sighs, “everything’s ok.”

He’s way too glad that Éponine appears out of the room turning her phone off looking ready to murder somebody. He considers hiding Maenad in his shoe cupboard because honestly, Éponine is just looking for an excuse but instead she collapses on the couch between them. “Gavroche is failing fucking primary school,” she growls.

“But how can that be?” Jehan cries. “He’s a damn genius!”

“I know he fucking is.”

“Then don’t give a fuck and shove that down their stuck up teacher throats…”

“Don’t you see _all_ that is left to him is his education?” she snaps. “He needs to do something with his life, I need to make sure he’s making an effort before he ends up being groped by drunk assholes in a bar and mope over some guy like I do or, I don’t know, robbing people...”

“You’re doing things with your life, Ponine…”

“That’s not the issue.”

Jehan stands up decisively. “Enough, enough for all of us today, okay?” He gives them his hands to raise them on their feet. “We’re going on the rooftop.”

And this once, it seems like the perfect idea.

The sky is already a dark violet when they go out at the rooftop, Éponine and Grantaire’s shelter ever since they came, while Jehan occupied the fire escape. The three of them sit there, smoking while staring at the starless Parisian sky absent-mindedly, and the lights of the city that wakes up instead of falling asleep below their feet. Soon the first thick raindrops start falling and in no time it’s pouring again. “Wanna do this now?” Grantaire eventually says through the smoke of his cigarette, grabbing Éponine's wrist. The three of them know what he’s referring to. They all have their weird shit and her own favorite outlet is walking in the rain. Grantaire absolutely hates getting wet but he also knows how much it will help all the shit dissolve from her mind and it’s too hard for her not to accept.  

“Mind if I stay here?” Jehan smiles faintly, going with the rules and never lecturing them on the possibility of the both of them catching pneumonia. “I have some work to catch up with.”

“Sure babe, just wear a coat and get the fuck inside if it gets any colder.”

“Get back soon enough to shower and change okay? And wear solid shoes.”

They don’t even reply and Jehan watches their tiny figures in the lamp lit street a few minutes later, both tucked up in several layers of clothes and hoodies covering their heads as they scream and run and step in every puddle.

Thankfully it stops raining soon because even under the small canopy of the rooftop it’s started getting cold and Jehan doesn’t want to get inside, not yet and not even to get a coat because it’s such a beautiful night, the clouds giving that perfect violet shade to the sky and the cool air of the early spring night stroking his face while he scribbles metaphors that fall gently like the notes of a music box in his notebook. He shuts his eyes and greedily inhales once, then twice. His head gets a bit light with all the air and he thinks it’s the clarity of his pulse that he hears, but only then he notices the sound of steps on the rooftop and feels something dry and warm wrapped around his shoulders. He opens his eyes and decides that’s probably the sight he wants to be met with every time he opens his eyes: Courfeyrac standing next to him and now taking a seat on a dry spot of the floor. “You’ll freeze out here in that sweater,” he smiles that radiant, infectious grin of his that makes Jehan’s heart to swell with gratefulness and need to devote the whole of himself to that man, to make sure he’s always well and happy and full because there’s nothing less than the sky and the stars above their heads that Courfeyrac deserves.

“I’m not cold,” he replies with a thankful smile yet wraps the navy blue coat tightly around him, inhaling the Bleu de Chanel from the fabric and feeling the warmth gently drape him in. “Thanks.”

“I’d thought I’d find you here,” Courfeyrac asks, causing something to jump inside Jehan. “Mind if I sit for a while?”

“No, not at all,” Jehan rushes to say, shutting his notebook, though Courfeyrac has already sat down. His eyes follow the poet’s hands.

“Are you writing?” a hopeful smile appears on his cheerful, beautiful face. “May I see?”

Jehan clutches the notebook on his chest, feeling his cheeks prickling. “I don’t usually, you know…”

“I understand,” Courfeyrac nods, a slight hint of disappointment momentarily shadowing his eyes, “you don’t have to show me if you don’t feel like it.”

“It’s not you it’s…” Jehan chuckles awkwardly, “I don’t normally show people.” His eyes fall on the tight black leather hugging Courfeyrac’s thighs rather sinfully and he has to work hard to control the rather unwelcome reaction between his own thighs. He clears his throat, mentally thanking Courfeyrac again for his coat. “Nice pants,” he eventually says because of course Jehan would be the last person on Earth to ever see anything wrong with a man walking around his building like he’s just escaped from Grease.

“Nice hair,” Courfeyrac compliments back, his fingers reaching to play with a temporarily pink lock and brush it behind Jehan’s ear. His knuckles brush against the skin of his cheek and Jehan shudders. Courfeyrac is smiling tenderly and Jehan lowers his eyes.

“Thank you.”

They remain pleasantly quiet for a while until the brunet eventually notices the wet from the rain cigarette butts on the cement floor and turns to look at Jehan. “Do you smoke?”

“I do sometimes yeah,” the smaller man shrugs his shoulders, starting to peel the varnish off his nails. “But these are mostly Grantaire and Éponine's.”

They sit back under the canopy. The rest of the rooftop glistens with the rain and the grey clouds start dancing in the dark sky, revealing a few stars faded out by the violent lights of the city.

“We could see all the stars in Provence,” Jehan mutters quietly.

A hand reaches for his own, it’s warm and big and his heart skips a beat. “Your hand is cold,” Courfeyrac mutters, turning around cross legged to face him. “Let me warm them up?”

Jehan hesitates for a second or two, not really knowing why, before giving Courfeyrac both his hands to hold them in his own and rub them gently. He doesn’t even notice how his head falls on his friend’s shoulder and their eyes turn to the sky. Courfeyrac hums a catchy tune as their fingers start playing together unconsciously, seeing how much they can tangle together without a chance of managing to untangle any time soon. The moon appears to bathe Paris in its light and for the rest of the night Jehan counts the stars on the sky and Courfeyrac counts the freckles of the asteroids on his skin.

*

The organization of the protest for which they’ve still not managed to obtain a permit has been keeping Enjolras thoroughly occupied and relatively stressed out, and the frantic preparation for his exams definitely isn’t helping. Combeferre’s schedule is exhausting as well and the two of them spend the biggest part of their day studying in their new living room. Enjolras is more than lucky to have his best friend who’ll cook for him and even bring him the food on the carpet where he’s usually sitting cross legged, several books, notes and mugs of coffee scattered around him, wearing the same pyjamas for days, pencils in his bush of blond hair. Combeferre makes sure that Enjolras is keeping himself hydrated and gets at least enough sleep and Enjolras on his turn makes sure to be the most interesting company he can for Combeferre during his breaks and he only stands up to make his best friend the necessary mugs of caffeinated poison. Neither of the two would probably survive their exams without the help of the other, even though Combeferre, despite the unusual two-day-scruff, looks to be dealing much better with the stress.

Still, however, and contrary to popular belief, it’s not rare even for the two of them to end up snapping at each other, releasing all the recent stress, and it’s not only Enjolras who’ll get snappy and prickly but Combeferre too. It takes less than a few hours to come back to normal though, and Courfeyrac is pretty much used to these little married life hiccups, as he somehow always manages to fly through the end of the term smoothly and almost untouched, and not particularly unsuccessful.

They have been discussing the meeting when Enjolras says “I think that Grantaire has an alcohol issue.”

“Astute observation,” mutters Combeferre, lowering his eyes back to his textbook.

“I don’t want him coming to our meetings,” Enjolras blurts out.

“Well he sure doesn’t help in a particular way but I don’t see how you can prevent a person from joining us, especially our neighbour.”

“Well, watch me doing it,” Enjolras says petulantly and Combeferre raises his glance warningly.

“Don’t do anything thoughtless. You won’t change anything by fighting with him.”

“I don’t even get why he joins us since he thinks so little of our cause.”

Combeferre remains silent.

“Why don’t you speak?”

“I don’t know Enjolras,” Combeferre replies tiredly, rubbing his eyes under his glasses with the bridge of his hands. “I don’t know what’s going on in Grantaire’s mind, I hardly know him.”

“Well then, why don’t we let him mess with our work and laugh at our face?” Enjolras’ voice comes out more aggressive than he’d wanted it to.

“What do you suggest then?” Combeferre sighs, placing his textbook on the table and abandoning every chance of studying.

“I don’t know, you find something! I can’t deal with that shit, okay?”

Combeferre stands up and wears his glasses again. “I know you have a lot on your mind Enjolras, but you’re in need of a break,” he says gently, still maintaining his composure but sincerely deciding to follow his own advice at the same time. “We’ll figure something out but right now I need some fresh air, okay?”

“Yeah, whatever,” Enjolras frowns, hiding himself behind his notes.

“I’ll hopefully return bearing Courfeyrac and something for us to eat,” Combeferre throws his tweed jacket over his shoulder and slips into his shoes, heading to the door. “Try not to get too absorbed in your studying, or kill somebody while I’m away.”

Enjolras huffs at his work, aggressively pulling his hair into a bun with no less than three pencils

*

Combeferre has been completely honest when he said that he needed some fresh air. This isn’t Enjolras’ fault, he knows that his best friend is mostly right when it comes to the way Grantaire behaves when it comes to their activism, and he understands that he’s stressed out with his work and he’d probably need the company, or at least a supervisor, but sometimes Combeferre really does need a break.

He doesn’t however reach further from the door because she literally bumps into a girl with dark hair and one piercing too many. Éponine's wearing a huge denim jacket and Combeferre notices that she trimmed her bangs short before he even notices the several paperbags in her arms full with groceries that was almost spilt out all over the entrance of the building with their encounter.

There’s something oddly attractive about her, something in the glint of her eyes that threatens you for your life if you make the wrong choices and at the same time doesn’t let enough show, something about the tone of her shiny skin and the way it goes with her dark hair and darker lipstick, it’s something about her bony wrists and her slumped posture, the dark circles under her eyes and the more-than-usually fed up expression that Combeferre wants to question, wants to know more about like he always does when it comes to things, yet at the same time he’d find himself perfectly content to just watch her do stuff, watch her go on with her life, react to people and stand up for herself, depend on others and save their sorry asses, do all the little things one does in their everyday life but also in special, more tricky occasions.

He always has to make a considerable effort not to see people as fascinating observation material. He cares too much for those surrounding him to diminish the significance for their personalities in any way, but one of his worst habits is indeed to find himself interested in inspecting people’s different behaviors and habitudes, the way they react and the way they treat others in their lives. This, however, is different. This once he finds himself keeping a considerable distance and, whereas he’s satisfied with it, he doesn’t know whether anything’s changed at the way he gets slightly nervous around her, and at the same time inherits behaviors he hates, like when he’s getting the impulse to ask her out of the blue whether everything’s alright with the danger of becoming annoying, intrusive and stereotypical, if not stalkerish, all of which definitely isn’t part of him.

Still, he never can deny the way he’s attracted not only to the mystery lingering around her, but also to her words, laughter and facial expressions, and everything in between.

“Do you need any help to carry the groceries?” he hears himself blurting out, immediately regretting it when he notices her raised eyebrow.

“What chivalry!” she exclaims sarcastically. “I say you sit there and watch me to lift _all those tomatoes_ to the apartment, now _that’_ ll be quite something, right?”

“I didn’t mean it that way, you know I didn’t,” he mutters, clearing his throat. “If there’s anything else you need though…”

Her thick eyebrow is about to be lost under her bangs and Combeferre sighs at himself. Great. Perfect. Such a smooth move. Way to show his admiration to a girl by sounding like he thinks his help is so fucking important for her to get on with her life.

She’s holding all these paperbags but it’s obvious that if she wasn’t she’d probably pat Combeferre condescendingly or maybe punch his face. “I’ll keep that in mind if I ever wake up feeling like a damsel in distress in need of a knight in a shining armor, thanks for your concern,” she smiles unexpectedly softly, with palpable irony but no spite whatsoever in her voice. They make a little dance at the door, her trying to walk in and him trying to get out without managing to prevent themselves from gracefully enough bumping on each other’s forehead. He’s already nursing his regret and she’s already called to the elevator when he hears her voice and turns around.

“Actually,” she says, thoughtfully chewing on a lower lip, causing an uncharacteristic warmth to spread inside Combeferre, “there’s something you could help me with.”

A kind smile returns on his face. “Anything except killing a dragon though,” he says seriously, standing at the door. “Because I never would.”

*

It wasn’t in Enjolras’ immediate plans to leave the apartment, not with a shitton of stuff to study and definitely not with his arms full of textbooks that weighed a little less than a truck.

But Courfeyrac comes home and starts freaking out for how much he’s going to end up barricading IKEA in nothing but a Robespierre vest because he never has any fun ever and he’ll probably go crazy or die and worst of all, Joly won’t let him go and sit his exams if that happens. Then Courfeyrac, as much as Enjolras loves him, starts making incoherent sounds about Jehan and their future together and all the cats they’ll adopt and he realizes that yes, his head is spinning around, his muscles all ache from sitting down all day and he needs a change of environment as well as some peace and quiet to get on with his work. So here he is, pencils still keeping his hair in place and notes peeking out of every book or pocket, trying to pass through the ticket control of the metro station with no free hands whatsoever.

His insides burn in horror and regret when he’s faced with the same homeless man lodging in the station of the Grands Boulevards. He always gives him money when he has some, he knows that Joly and Bossuet have a habit of cooking for the homeless and they’ve brought him food to get it to him numerous times in the past, and that makes him feel even worse. People who feel redeemed for sparing a few cents, who walk with their chest swelling with pride inside their well-tailored suits, and Enjolras hates feeling one of them, hates the privilege he was born with even though he understands that without it, it would have been much less easy to fight for those in need. The very fact frustrates him even more and somehow always manages to mess his insides up.

His brow is creased as he walks down the Boulevard St. Michel, his jaw tight and his lips pressed into a thin line. His knuckles have already turned red from the effort of carrying the books and sometimes the ache in his arms and wrists offers him some release of the tension he’s been carrying beneath his meninges. People walk by chattering lively, talking to their phones or to their children, laughing or taking pictures, shops and coffee shops and buildings with their little balconies, everything flows normally, everyone completely unaware of the voices that are silenced, the sorrows that are suppressed.

He realizes how disgusting and hypocritical it is when he starts looking for the warmth of a café to sit and study and the help of as much caffeine as is humanly possible to consume, and then he sees it.

Of course.

His feet brought him here, or he brought them instead he doesn’t know, but he’s entering the café Musain for the second time in his life, begging to find Musichetta waiting the tables today because in all honesty, it’s a really nice café, peaceful and quiet and simple enough, all he can remember from that last disastrous meeting is the soft scent of wood that travels you in some other setting and era, the dim lighting that almost resembles the flickering of the candle and Enjolras really thinks he’ll be able to concentrate and study here.

The first thing his eyes meet with is Grantaire’s blue icy glance, that, easy and natural and painfully expected as that, he didn’t know whether he was expecting it or not, whether he was dreading the moment it would happen again or treasuring it with the most twisted side of himself that was already way too sleep deprived and overly caffeinated. It just happens, Grantaire is there behind the counter in his green apron, staring back at him not with sarcasm or bitterness but with mere surprise, himself looking particularly taken aback, blue eyes opened widely, pale lips half parted, and Enjolras stands numb in the doorway of the little coffee shop, wondering whether he should just turn around and leave before it would be too late.

But instead he walks inside, savoring the strong scent of the coffee that hits him almost violently and forces him to his feet, the instant picking up of his heart and the itching of his tongue, everything begging to keep him awake because sleep is for the weak and the world does not wait of him and his naps to keep on turning, everything that Joly keeps repeating that will kill him but flesh is insignificant and he – _they –_ is much more than that, he knows that.

Yet his body is impossibly thankful as his aching muscles sink into a brocade armchair and his notes spread themselves on his lap and on the coffee table. He shuts his eyes just for a minute, allowing his senses to be absorbed by the calming sounds of a coffee shop, the quiet crowd and the jazz tunes playing on the radio. It’s a familiar and much upsetting voice that brings him back to reality.

“Which stairwell of the heavens broke in half, which cloud of the night exploded to let the stars unhook themselves and shine upon your halo, Apollo? Which was the force that graced us with your godly presence?”

Enjolras scrunches up his nose and opens his eyes, his meninges already pounding with anger and regret for his decision. “I need a coffee Grantaire. Can you make me some or should I go somewhere else?”

Grantaire raises an eyebrow. Enjolras avoids his gaze. He’s already feeling too stressed and irritated for his own good, he needs to calm down because it will happen again and this seriously isn’t helping. “I don’t think the human kind is ready to face such a threat.”

“What threat?”

“You high on more caffeine than you already are.”

“For fuck’s sake will you bring me a damned black coffee?”

Only then does Enjolras realize that he’s snapped and half of the café is already staring at them. The corners of Grantaire’s mouth curl upwards in a smug smile. “Always at your service, my liege.”

Grantaire returns bearing the most longed coffee that smells like heaven and hell and all the things that Enjolras’ head is pounding about, as well as a sandwich big as his backpack. “I didn’t order this…” he rushes to protest but Grantaire holds up a hand.

“You’re eating this. I know for a fact that you’ve been studying all day long and probably haven’t had a proper meal for over a week.”

Enjolras is oddly affected by that gesture of interest for his wellbeing. He’s been used to those, Joly and Combeferre can be quite a handful during exams and he could easily go without the fussing and fretting. It’s only his stomach which interrupts his train of thoughts though, growling so loudly that he swears he sees several customers turning from the nearby tables. He can feel his cheeks burning as he takes the first bite of the sandwich that feels like ambrosia on his tongue, and it’s only then that he realizes he hasn’t eaten since the previous morning, apart from the fajita Combeferre almost forced down his throat before he left home.

“How do you know I’ve been studying all day?” he frowns at the barista before taking a sip of his coffee that burns his tongue and then downing half the sandwich at once.

“Our rooms are next to each other, remember?” smiles Grantaire, examining his nails and there’s something that puts Enjolras off, something in his lazy posture, in his sarcastic expression, that he wants to brush off the man’s face. “I can hear you _think._ ”

With everything he had in his mind he had almost forgotten about the fact that after almost getting at each other’s necks the other day at the meeting they had both returned home only to sleep with their heads separated by a few inches of cement. He had almost forgotten the music that pounded through the wall room the few times when Grantaire was home, the muffled chattering when he assumed that he was in there with some of his friends. With everything going on he had almost managed not to wonder what the barista would be talking about with his friends, he had almost managed not to wonder how he looked when he slept – _if_ he ever slept – and what exactly was going on when he was suddenly listening to Chopin instead of Arctic Monkeys or, heaven forbid, ABBA. And what did Grantaire do when he was alone in his room, apart from an excellent job in annoying the shit out of people?

Nevertheless, it was strange to sense him so close, and now that the other man had reminded it to him he was definitely feeling uncomfortable.

“So,” Grantaire simply says, not showing any desire to go away and let him work any time soon. “Watcha reading?”

Enjolras doesn’t even reply, wondering with obvious annoyance where Grantaire’s limits are, if he happens to have any of those, and if there is any ounce of respect for other human beings and their personalities under the layers of sarcasm and bitterness and disgusting opinions.

Grantaire ignores his silence and leans over to read Enjolras’ notes. He smells of cigarettes and alcohol and ever so faintly of oranges, and Enjolras thinks he’s getting dizzy so he takes another generous sip of his coffee which almost causes him to choke. “History,” he nods seriously before turning to Enjolras, ignoring how close their faces are and how clearly uncomfortable this makes him.

“No need to pout,” Grantaire says with a small smile.

“I’m not pouting,” Enjolras pouts.

“Of course you aren’t.” Enjolras feels too tired to protest when Grantaire reaches for his notes almost gently and gives them a look. “I can help you, you know,” he mutters.

“You can’t help me,” the blonde sighs, feeling anxiety already crippling inside him, numbing his shoulders, and moving up to his neck, cold sweat filling his brow. “Just, please…” his own voice sounds exhausted in his ears, “let me finish this in peace, if that’s not hard enough a concept for you to understand.”

“Whatever you want," he shrugs his shoulder, "If you’re sure that you can learn all of this without making a brief plan first...” A pause. “I did college once too, you know,” he snorts blankly and only then does Enjolras notice the dark circles under his blue eyes, and something tightens inside his chest.

Grantaire actually sounds like he’s genuinely offering his help but Enjolras can’t allow himself to accept it or take him seriously, there’s something holding him back because Grantaire’s voice can’t suddenly be so soft and full with veneration. Something feels to have changed and he can’t quite identify it, or the feeling of discomfort that settles in his chest.

“Aren’t you supposed to be working here?”

“It’s almost empty today,” Grantaire gestures around the café and, without Enjolras’ consent, takes his notes and starts underlining with a pencil he pulls from Enjolras’ buns, causing a few blond curls to escape and fall over his cheek. Enjolras is too struck to stop him or even start working on his textbook himself.

“You said you’ve done college,” he mutters.

“Did. Past tense.” Grantaire doesn’t raise his eyes from the notes.

“What happened?”

“I dropped out.”

Enjolras’ chest clenches again. “What did you do?”

“Art,” Grantaire replies simply. _Of course._ “I did art,” he raises his eyes, a playful spark glowing through them. “I _am_ art,” he says sarcastically, before starting to scribble stuff on Enjolras’ helpless notes with the pencil. Enjolras watches him as he takes a pause, taking his flask of his hip which suddenly causes anger to prickle again on his face.

“Why do you drink?”

“Why do you breathe?” is Grantaire’s immediate response as he swallows and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, causing more sweat to break on Enjolras’ temple. “Seriously, if you’re going to start again leave, okay?” There’s something serious in his voice that makes Enjolras shut up, something about a territory he shouldn’t have crossed, about words he should have better swallowed the way Grantaire swallowed his poison. “Is the question-Grantaire’s-mental-state-and-level-of-fuck-up over yet or should I expect anything else?” his voice has lost the softness it held for a while and Enjolras feels an uncomfortable lump on his throat at the return of the harsh, hoarse tone and the coldness in those eyes that he can’t really read, that’s frustrating him _so much._

“One last question,” he hears himself breathing. “Why are you helping me?”

Grantaire raises his eyes slowly again from the notes. They’re so blue and deep and at the same time blocking him, Enjolras can’t read a word, it’s a fucking Babel and he can’t breathe, he’s feeling the anxiety and the discomfort pounding through his veins so he stops trying. Grantaire looks softened again yet still harsh in a way, and always unreachable. “Eat your sandwich, Apollo,” he mutters, and it’s the first time Enjolras sees those eyes smile before the bitter lips do. So Enjolras eats the rest of his sandwich and sinks further into the leather armchair, taking his book on his lap and forcing his eyes to burn through the page and tame the jumping letters.

His eyelids fall heavy. It smells of wood and coffee and oranges and the radio is playing soft piano music.

When he wakes up, groggy and lost somewhere between afternoon and evening, it’s Musichetta’s shift. His notes are highlighted in the most disturbing neon colors, scribbled and annotated with the most annoying – annoyingly _correct –_ commentary.

A green blanket is draped around his shoulders.

*

Cosette has been tapping her aquamarine Mary Janes rhythmically on the pavement for quite a while at the end of the Pont de l’Archevêché. It had been her decision to meet there because Marius would never have dared to suggest it himself, no matter how much she knew he loved the idea, but she should have expected that it would take a while for him to arrive. She spent about twenty minutes staring at the tourist and Parisian couples who left padlocks with their initials on the bridge, or just took pictures of them and the Seine as a background. The whole ridiculously cheesy concept brings a smile to her face until she actually starts feeling cold. Maybe it’s not yet time for her favorite matching mint trench coat, she curses the Parisian early spring weather that can never get its shit together.

And just when she starts wondering whether her boyfriend threw himself in the Seine by mistake, a wild Marius appears on the bridge, running and bumping on bewildered tourists, straightening them up and saying he’s sorry until their eyes meet and he’s all flushed and messy haired and he’s wearing the same black suit with a pink tie that Courfeyrac bought him for a 4-gone-5PM date, for crying out loud.

Cosette is so much in love that sometimes she thinks of running straight into a wall screaming.

Then again maybe that’s an immediate effect of being so much in love with Marius Pontmercy.

“I’m so sorry, really it’s not entirely my fault! Courf told me that afternoon naps help you relax before a date and boost your performance so I kind of took a nap but I saw in my sleep that I was getting ready when in reality I was just sleeping so you see I woke up late and then had to actually get ready, and there are so many bridges that I always get lost…” the perfectly disheveled Marius says in one breath but Cosette shuts him up with a tiptoed kiss that causes him to open his eyes widely and almost lose his balance, ending up muttering what sounds like Russian against her lips.

That’s what Cosette adores in Marius: he’s so kind, so caring and genuine, so naturally intelligent that he doesn’t even realize the stuff he does. Then again, there’s that old fashioned chivalrous side of him that she doesn’t know how she feels about, if not thoroughly amused.

“Do you want my jacket?” is his first breathless words after the kiss breaks, leaving them both slightly dazed, arms still wrapped around each other’s waists.

“No Marius, I have my own,” she smiles softly.

“Oh,” he takes a while to observe the undeniable fact before nodding. “If you’re cold though…”

“If I’m cold it will probably mean you’re cold too and then it would be better for both of us to be cold than one of us be freezing, right?”

A smile slowly appears on his face. “I love the way you’re thinking,” he grabs her hands in his own and brings them to his lips to smack a kiss on each of her creamy knuckles. Her heart melts a bit. Then he pulls back and looks at her. “You look beautiful,” he breathes, his fingers gently tracing the pale yellow lace of her skirt.

“And so do you,” she stares at him sweetly before her expression goes 101% mischievous and she’s pinching his ribs, causing him to jump two meters in the air.

“Ow,” he protests, “so is that a tickle match?” he smirks sinisterly, causing her to instinctively back off but he’s fast enough and she screeches as his fingers prod at her stomach. For a second or two something jumps inside her in the same way as during their long, heavenly makeout sessions, all sighs and tongues and hands in places that took her a while to start feeling confident about, but then Marius’ arms wrap strongly, in a way that feels ridiculously protective and surprisingly doesn’t bother her at all, and pulls her against his own lanky body, chin resting on her shoulder as he presses a kiss on her round, rosy cheek. At that moment Cosette knows that never in her life has she felt more contented and confident in her own, beautiful skin.

“I love you,” he breathes in her ear, placing a soft kiss on the tiny lark tattoo behind it.

“And I you, Bambi,” she hums teasingly, “now are we doing this or not?”

“We certainly are, angry feminist.”

Cosette raises an eyebrow. “You’re an angry feminist too though.”

“I’m the angriest of feminists,” Marius clenches his fists in dramatic determination and Cosette laughs, but next things she knows he’s produced a padlock out of the pocket of his worn blazer. Cosette just stands there amazed for a while because it’s the most beautiful thing she’s ever seen, an old brass padlock with their initials calligraphically painted on it in the warmest colors of the sunrise.

“Where did you get this?” she asks softly.

“I asked Grantaire to paint it for us.”

“The sneaky bastard, he didn’t tell me anything,” Cosette mutters before raising her eyes at him. “It’s beautiful.”

“You know sometimes I’m sure that Grantaire is so obviously in love with Enjolras but then again that would be so weird, don’t you think? I mean they fight all the time but they have nothing in common and Enjolras can be really intimidating though not so much as Combeferre…”

“Come on,” Cosette moans affectionately, deciding to congratulate Marius on his deduction skills later, grabbing his hand and leading him on the bridge. “Let’s do this!”

They kneel before the padlocks which they both know are going to be disposed when the bridge is full just to be replaced with new ones, but neither cares as they lock it safely and their fingers lock too. A few setting sunrays peer from behind the Notre-Dame and fall on them, making Marius’ eyes glow and his hair to look stricken with gold. She leans in to kiss him and he responds eagerly.

“Sorry for this not being a proper date but my grandfather told me to ‘go get my Red Communist ass a proper pair of trousers’ and when I said that he’s a victim of the capitalist propaganda and that the proletariats will rise and revolt he threw me out without giving me any money,” he says apologetically when they’ve finally pulled away from each other. “I’m so sorry.”

“There’s no such thing as a real date,” Cosette snorts dismissively. “Come on, I’ll get us a gelato and then we’ll throw pebbles in the Seine.”

And that’s exactly what they do and Cosette has never enjoyed a shitload of calories and chocolaty goodness more in her life as they sit by the Seine and she kicks off her heels to drip her toes in the filthy water.

“Are you sure this is sanitary?” he asks hesitantly before nodding at the roll of her eyes and kicking off his own shoes and socks as well. “You’re right,” he smiles, lying his head on her lap and wetting his toes at the water. They end up getting ice cream all over their clothes and throwing pebbles that produce homocentric circles on the blue-green surface. Eventually Marius manages to splash water all over her dress and they tackle each other on the cobblestone, laughing until their bellies hurt.

“Do your fathers know we’re here?” Marius blurts out at some point.

“Of course they know we’re here, why wouldn’t they?”

“I don’t know,” Marius avoids her gaze, looking unsure. “I’m not exactly sure they like me.”

“Oh hush,” Cosette pats his arm, “of course they do.” There is a small pause. “You’re not scared that my one dad is an ex-convict and the other is a cop, right?”

He shudders. “No, of course not. They’re your dads.”

“That’s good to know,” she smiles encouragingly. “After all they’re more scared of you than you are of them.”

“Scared? Why?”

“Well I was babbling uncontrollably about you after our first date and I told them that you pulled the chair for me to sit down causing me to land flat on my butt instead.”

“Oh no,” Marius goes white as a sheet.

“I also told them that you open, read and forward chain messages.”

“Aren’t we supposed to forward those?”

“How have you even survived college life?” she sighs, unable to hide a loving smile.

He shrugs his shoulders. “I don’t know. Courfeyrac is pretty helpful, I guess.”

“The other day I told Courf about my sewing classes and he went all ‘please Cosette, I’ve known that for over a year’!”

“Well of course he did,” Marius states, matter-of-factly.

“Courf and I met a week ago.”

“Well I might have... cared for you for a _little_ longer, you already know that.”

“If by saying cared for me you mean downright stalking," Cosette raises her eyebrow. "I dread the stuff your friends know about me,” she sighs gravely.

“Only bad stuff,” she says seriously.

“Oh I’m glad!" she smirks. "You probably already knew my taste in underwear back then!”

“Brazilian cut, lilac lace with tiny daisies,” Marius provides her very seriously, causing her to choke on her lemonade.

“What? How?”

Only then does Marius have the decency to blush. “The wind raised your skirt one day. There was that guy I wanted to castrate for looking at you.”

They end up at the Square of Vert Galant, under the weeping willow, sitting by the Seine as the sun sets. They're at their tenth colorful macaron and they’re acting like complete dorks. Everything feels like it's jumped out of a painting and Cosette can only faintly think that she can’t possibly be so lucky, _awake_ and lucky, that this probably is a fairytale taken over her life, before his lips are against her own, kissing her hungrily and tasting as much as they can of her, hands breathing in her skin a hundred different colors. They kiss for what seems like forever, bodies pressed together and spring mingling in their breaths.

They break the kiss just for a second, to gasp for breath and her lips linger seductively on his jaw. “Marius darling,” she breathes, “I don’t know what language you’re speaking but it’s hot so keep the hell doing it.”

She feels Marius smiling against her lips and that’s more than she’ll ever need.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Also look up the Rue Cremieux if you haven't already because I think it's making me cry and I can totally see the /Marius shoving Cosette against the Rue Plumet wall/ taking place there in a Modern AU.


	5. I'll be criticized for lending out my art

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m _not_ a God and I don’t need anyone’s help,” Enjolras tries to fix his eyes on the paragraph he’s been reading for the fifth time but it’s become impossible again.
> 
> “Of course,” coos Grantaire, “aw cute, are these Gryffindor socks you have there?”
> 
> “Stop searching my stuff for God’s sake,” he snaps, “and yes, I _don’t._ ”
> 
> Grantaire doesn’t reply. The quiet, unreadable smile has still not left his face while he keeps messing with Enjolras’ things. Enjolras’ mind is working faster than what his exhaustion would normally support and he hears himself blurting the words out, not having the faintest idea whether they’re actually true, whether it’s something that has been twirling in his haze of a mind lately, or if he just wants to distract Grantaire away from his shelves. “No actually, will you do me a favor?”
> 
> If the latter was the reason, Enjolras’ attempt has immediate success, as the other man stops and turns to face him. “Anything,” he smirks, “I’ll wash your Converse.”
> 
>  
> 
> _Or the one where Jehan and Courfeyrac are going to give Grantaire the cooties, so he decides to visit Enjolras and contract them on his own instead._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all I'm so sorry that it took so long for me to update, it's been a rather full and kind of tough week which magically enough ended up with a puppy named Lucy (after the Beatles song of course) and me not being cynophobic anymore. I think I've fallen in love during the past few hours, and now I'm struggling to pull my shit together and stop my cheeks from smiling because she's so precious! Please don't worry if my updates take a while, life is crazy and learning is cool but exhausting. When I said I'm working hard on this story I mean it, and I'm going to complete it no matter what! I personally prefer the next chapter (on which I'm working right now) much more than this one, so please have a little patience and give me a chance to give you more soon, because you've all been so wonderful and kind with me until now!
> 
> I really worry for Gavroche because I've never written him before and making an attempt at that wonderful precious little badass always terrified me. I'm so sorry for the obvious use of Gizoogle at certain parts, English is not my first language and no kind of slang can naturally be either, so please tell me if it's ridiculous and I apologize in advance. I was just searching for a word and then Gizoogle happened and I was laughing so hard that I just couldn't NOT keep some pieces of it, I'm sorry (though I really am not).
> 
> The title is from 'French Navy' by Camera Obscura.
> 
> WARNING: nsfw I guess. This chapter contains alarming amounts of fapping. 
> 
> Opinions and constructive criticism are always more than welcome! Thank you for everything!

Enjolras had never taken Courfeyrac’s advice about going out and the positive impact it would later have on his studying really seriously. Right now, stormed under tons of work at the small desk of his room, huffing by the lamplight and feeling absolutely disgusting in the same pyajamas, he has no idea whether his best friend has actually been right or wrong. All that he knows is that he’s distracted, more than he’s been in ages, it’s like he’s sitting on a league of ants that don’t let his bum stay on the chair, his eyes wander around his small room, rest on the titles of his books without reading them, his fingers fiddle with a thread from his sweater, play for hours with a pencil sharpener and his mind travels in paths he would rather not be crossing right now. Even the sound of the traffic outside the window upsets him, and he turns his head from the panes to the wall and back, as if his intense gaze will cause some sound to come from the other side of it as well because he’s formed a habit of getting worried whenever there’s only silence coming from Grantaire’s room and that’s just wrong, that’s plain wrong and nothing less.

It’s already too late when he notices the time and his face fills with cold sweat, he starts furiously turning the pages but he can’t concentrate, the textbook is enormous and his pulse is picking up again, he can’t afford this to happen again, oh God he can’t, not when his first exam is only two days away, he needs to calm his breathing, he needs to concentrate…

There is a knock on the door that almost stops the ringing in his head, but it takes a second one to convince him that the sound is real and the source of it is actually standing outside their apartment. He swears a million times under his breath because he can’t do people right now, he has so much work to finish and he’s way too anxious to deal with anybody, even with Feuilly, but Combeferre is studying with Joly and Courfeyrac is studying with Jehan and he should have joined them when they asked, he wouldn’t have to be the one to answer a fucking door right now –

It’s Grantaire standing on the doorway and part of him knows he should have been prepared for that but he really hasn’t. The pace of his breathing that he’d managed to calm down what with standing up from the desk and walking away for a moment is a mess again, his heart is doing that thing and for once he’s more than grateful for Grantaire’s voice that shakes him back to reality.

“About fucking time!”

Enjolras bring a hand to rub on his forehead. “This really is not the right time…”

“No please just for the love of Merlin or Robespierre or whoever the fuck you worship, just let me in,” moans the man, having already entered the apartment without Enjolras’ invitation. “Your friend and my friend next door are gonna give me the cooties.”

Enjolras sighs with evident sympathy, a small, exhausted sound that still doesn’t ease the pulling of his skin and the tightness in his chest. “Come on in,” he steps back. “My friend and your friend can get quite a handful when they’re not together.”

Grantaire snorts. “Don’t talk about handfuls after the show I had to witness. They almost bought each other a virginity just to lose it all over again for a bigger dose of drama.”

“Courfeyrac would never do anything disrespectful…” snaps Enjolras, turning around to face Grantaire with a swish of his hair, but the brunet holds up a hand.

“No need to take your tricolor knickers in a twist, everything remains on the eye fucking level.”

“Okay yeah, whatever,” Enjolras throws his hands in the air, trying not to hear more than is necessary.

Grantaire, who’s already being nosy about the books on the bookcase, pulling one or two out and opening them in random pages, turns around with a rather concerned look on his face. “Have you considered a break?” he asks, leaving the book back to its place and making a step closer to Enjolras, who presses the bridges of his hands against his temples, briefly shutting his eyes.

“I need to finish this,” he repeats like a broken record.

“Well giving yourself a fricking panic attack is hardly going to help is it, Apollo?” Grantaire doesn’t make another step and Enjolras is grateful and surprised for the space he’s being given. His gaze doesn’t meet Grantaire’s.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

Grantaire ignores him. “Now, since you’ll have to tolerate my presence here, let me meddle in your kitchen and make you something significantly unhealthy and delicious to keep you from passing out.”

Enjolras doesn’t protest. He just heads back to his room, waving his hand in the air. “You don’t have to do this,” he simply says, sitting at his desk again only to find that the brief break now helps him concentrate a bit more.

Time passes without him noticing it and he can be nothing but relieved when he realizes that he’s actually concentrating on his work now. Grantaire enters the room with a plate full of spaghetti and Enjolras doesn’t even realize what a masterpiece it really is until he’s finished every bite. “Thanks for that,” he mutters serenely.

“Has anybody told you that you eat like a pig?” Grantaire is smiling calmly, sitting cross legged on the foot of Enjolras’ unmade bed, his hands on his ankles. It’s a different image of Grantaire than the one that Enjolras has been used to, one that he’s almost alright with being around, as if he’s a friend, Combeferre or Courfeyrac, not really bothering or annoying him, maybe even welcome.

 _Is_ Grantaire a friend?

The thought itself is what makes him particularly uncomfortable and he tries hard to shove it away from his head but with no particular success.

“Your jeans are covered in paint,” is what he eventually says in a tired voice but with no actual stress on it. “Get off my clean sheets.”

“You need to relax Apollo,” croons the man pleasantly, fidgeting with Enjolras’ blanketand stretching his legs over it, resting carelessly against the pillows in a way that makes Enjolras’ throat go dry. “You’re working yourself too hard, and who’ll save the world if you flip out?”

“I don’t know what’s got you,” murmurs Enjolras, annoyance starting to show again in his impatient voice. “Stop fussing for no reason.”

“I just want to help,” Grantaire shrugs his shoulders, now invading in Enjolras’ drawers. “With your cause or your nutrition or everything that can keep a God happy.”

“I’m _not_ a God and I don’t need anyone’s help,” Enjolras tries to fix his eyes on the paragraph he’s been reading for the fifth time but it’s become impossible again.

“Of course,” coos Grantaire, “aw cute, are these Gryffindor socks you have there?”

“Stop searching my stuff for God’s sake,” he snaps, “and yes, _I don’t._ ”

Grantaire doesn’t reply. The quiet, unreadable smile has still not left his face while he keeps messing with Enjolras’ things. Enjolras’ mind is working faster than what his exhaustion would normally support and he hears himself blurting the words out, not having the faintest idea whether they’re actually true, whether it’s something that has been twirling in his haze of a mind lately, or if he just wants to distract Grantaire away from his shelves. “No actually, will you do me a favor?”

If the latter was the reason, Enjolras’ attempt has immediate success, as the other man stops and turns to face him. “Anything,” he smirks, “I’ll wash your Converse.”

Enjolras draws in a deep breath of air, already having regretted it. “Draw for us,” he hears himself saying.

Grantaire is looking particularly confused. “What do you mean, Apollo?”

“Draw for our group. You said you were willing to help the cause, didn’t you?”

Grantaire raises his shoulders. “I guess so?”

“I’m not going to question your motives right now because I’ll probably don’t like the answer I’ll receive, but if you _really_ want to do something, it would be terribly appreciated if you could draw something for our pamphlets and posters. You still do art, right?” he asks stupidly, as if art is a habit that one has such as playing Pokemon on their Nintendo.

“I still kinda do art, yeah,” Grantaire stares at him blankly. “But…”

“It would be great then,” Enjolras breathes quickly, color already lighting his cheeks, his eyes glowing with their usual determination, “if you could do this for me… for us. Feuilly has already offered but he hardly gets any sleep…”

“It’s not that you look particularly well rested either…” Enjolras opens his mouth to speak but Grantaire holds up a hand. “No. I’ll try. I’ll probably fuck up –”

“Why –”

“No listen. I’ll _try,_ okay? If that’s what you – the group – needs I’ll try. It will probably suck though.”

Enjolras stands up, climbing on his bed and sitting cross legged next to Grantaire. “Nonsense. Just give me a sketch and I’ll tell you exactly what we need. You’ll literally save us…”

“Okay now stop being dramatic,” says Grantaire hoarsely. “I said I’ll try. Now take a break. I won’t say for my sake, but maybe for that of the mortals whose lives are illuminated by your presence.”

They sit on the bed without speaking for a while. It’s not exactly awkward, that’s not the word Enjolras would use. Their eyes hardly meet, that’s true, and they’re so close that he can smell the cigarettes and inevitably the alcohol, as well as the cloth softener on Grantaire’s grey hoodie. Grantaire still frustrates him, that’s true – now more than ever before. He won’t deny he gets upset every time he sees the man, his sloppy composure, the clothes that look a size too big and a decade too old, the scruff on his face, the untamed dark curls and the distant, blue gaze that confuses him so much. He won’t deny despising the way he mocks them and laughs at their principles and ideas, the way his blood starts boiling in his veins every time the man interrupts their work with the occasional unwelcome snark, yet there’s something about the unusual peace fallen between them at that moment, the way he genuinely shows he cares even when he obviously doesn’t give a shit for their cause, it’s so obviously wrong but maybe Enjolras doesn’t _always_ mind his presence, maybe not even in his room, on his own bed, in those baggy stained jeans, with his scruffy old boots thrown in the middle of the carpet.

“Play with my hair?” he hears himself and immediately flushes bright red, internally cursing his stupid, tired mouth for phrasing such a stupid, absurd desire that he didn’t even know he owned. Grantaire’s face is mildly shocked rather than weirded out. Soon enough, however, that familiar hint of a smile appears on his face, bringing a small spark in his blue eyes. “I mean,” he rushes to add, “Combeferre or Courf do it sometimes… when we’re stressed out with our exams. It kind of helps.”

“Anything,” Grantaire simply breathes, and then his deft, long fingers are between Enjolras’ golden locks and it’s more relaxing than everything that Enjolras has experienced lately. All he can hear is Grantaire’s breath as it brushes warm against the nape of his neck. Suddenly his eyes slide shut and there’s a smile tugging on his lips and the muscles of his face hurt when he tries to suppress it. His reaction will terribly upset him later but maybe a break was exactly what he needed and, as Grantaire’s presence bring the most treasured, uncharacteristic peace to his entire being he can be nothing but thankful for it.

*

Grantaire bursts into his apartment with his heart pounding in his head, slamming the door behind him and trying to control his erratic breathing. He ignores Jehan and Courfeyrac’s invitation to join them at Sweeney Todd, and walks straight to his room, throwing himself on the mattress, not even bothering to turn on the lights, and burying his face against the pillows, wondering whether he could asphyxiate himself with a little more effort.

He can’t believe it’s happening, he can’t believe he let it get so out of hand. He was already familiar with the fact that this was going to end up fucked up, so fucking fucked up because who gave him the right to cross paths with the very God of Light and fall in love with him from the moment he saw him, who gave him the right to think of him when he shouldn’t to disgrace his cause with his pathetic presence and to invade in his life in such a way, to let himself show how much he cared when even he didn’t want to believe it and most of all to _touch him_ like he did, with his fingers and his mind, so close yet so far, insufferable pain prickling through every cell of his body. So much that all he needs is to rip his flesh apart and scream but he can’t because Enjolras’ head is just a few inches away from his own, that fucking wall parting their thoughts and their worlds and Grantaire _can’t_ so he buries himself as deep as he can in the cushions and muffles his heavy breathing.

His whole being is full of it, full of _him._ The soft scent of coffee and coconut shampoo, the feeling of those glorious soft locks against his fingers, as if the sun himself was peppering his skin with kisses, the soft rising and falling of the man’s chest as he relaxed under his chaste touch, less and more of a God than ever at the same time and Grantaire just _melts_ and tries to breathe –

His whole body is burning despite the cool weather of a spring Parisian night and the broken heater of their apartment. The desire that had been pooling on the pit of his stomach for so long is kicking his guts from the inside, he’s so _warm…_ Unconsciously he holds out his palm and presses it over the wall on the head of his bed, he wonders of how close Enjolras really is, how many millimeters of thin air part them, he can _touch_ the forbidden marble as he touches the wall, cold and rigid, it’s so pathetic and relieving at the same time that Grantaire can’t deal with this anymore.

The night is closing in, he can feel it despite the shut grilles of the window. Jehan and Courfeyrac’s voices are muffled through the shut door. Enjolras is not here, he’ll never be, yet he feels so _close,_ it’s as if his warm breath penetrates the wall and brushes on Grantaire’s palm, fingers outstretched and blood pumping through the visible veins peering under his skin.

He thinks of his golden locks and his fingers between them, stroking him gently, venerating every inch of his being, softly like the muttering of a prayer. And then his fingers are fisting around Enjolras’ hair, tugging on him with desperation. He can almost feel the warm, sacred skin beneath his aching, dry lips. He’s getting drunk, so fucking drunk, drunker in that than in every sip of alcohol that has ever poisoned his system in the past. It’s intoxicating, the thought of Enjolras’ skin, his hair, his lips as they slowly come to rest on his pounding pulse point, to fight with his own and _God_ he can almost taste him, what would he taste like?

_Coffee. Blood. The sun._

Grantaire’s hand is sliding under the waistband of his sweatpants and inside his boxers and he’s touching himself, unable to think straight, just fingers wrapping greedily around the base of his cock and stroking almost mechanically, ignoring the mere disgust he’s feeling for himself, getting off on a person who despises his every word, defiling a chaste, infinite God –

He’s swallowing his groan of need and pain as he fastens his pace of his palm around his throbbing erection, every ounce of his being in complete ecstasy because _those eyes, those red lips on him – around him – his hands on his skin,_ as he gets to taste him, _all of him._

His eyes fall shut, his heart is thrumming so loudly through his whole body that he’s sure Enjolras can hear it echoing through the wallbut he doesn’t care because for that single second they’re together and they’re feeling each other, their arms tightly wrapped around their bodies, trying to shove themselves in their place as he holds him close, moving inside of him and only then can he taste _liberty,_ so slowly and truly, getting to touch all of him at once with the most innocent of embraces.

He releases with a muffled, choked sound, swearing breathlessly through gritted teeth. His limbs feel numb, his body still vibrating from the need that now makes him feel more disgusting than ever before.

 _Anything for you,_ is the last thing his mind manages to form at the moving sounds he hears from Enjolras’ room, before he lies on his back like the dead and falls asleep.

*

They’re dancing. He knows they are. They’ve done it before and he can hear their muffled steps thumping on the wooden floor, the music that sounds suspiciously like Stromae but is not too loud – never too loud after the disastrous activist meeting about the protest – just enough so that he can hear their laughter and even some of their louder pants as he imagines the two of them covered in a thin layer of sweat, Jehan’s hair pulled in a braided bun and Grantaire’s dark locks sticking on his forehead, possibly dressed in sweatpants or leggings or shorts, Enjolras doesn’t know. All that he knows is that the music is enough to distract him and the distant sound of their voices even more.

It’s a strange thing their neighbours have. Enjolras had always thought that no one could ever feel closer to his best friends than he did for Combeferre and Courfeyrac, their bond immense and their affection unending. Yet there is something quiet and at the same time really loud in a completely different way when it comes to Grantaire, Jehan and Eponine, the way he always catching them looking at each other almost cautiously as if there’s some deal between them to always take care of the other without one of them even having to phrase the need. Combeferre told him that he saw Grantaire and Éponine in the rain. His friend had considered going out to help them in with an umbrella until he realized they were actually doing this for fun.

And then there was Grantaire and Jehan, and the way he felt Courfeyrac tensing near him and then being moody and louder-than-usually about the things that pissed him for the rest of the day, every time that they hung off each other’s necks, smoking and laughing together, clinging on each other almost with desperation. There’s something that makes him slightly uncomfortable when he witnesses it. He admires and respects Jehan and his opinions very dearly and Grantaire frustrates him terribly most of the time but that’s not the issue. Something feels odd, maybe the way they seem absorbed in each other and occasionally in Éponine too, as if they’re alone in the world.

_Maybe it’s not that._

Of course it is, he huffs at himself, what else would it be?

He stands up, realizing he’s in terrible need of a break – his first in more than five hours – and heads to the kitchen, the music growing more and more distant as his feet carry him at the corridor.

Both Combeferre and Courfeyrac are sitting on the carpet, books and notes scattered all over the place. “No really though,” he hears Courfeyrac say before he enters the room. “We could call it C&C Advice Bureau, ain’t that catchy? Think of it, we could be millionaires!”

“First of all, I sincerely don’t want to know what you’re talking about,” Enjolras makes his appearance, stretching his back and rubbing his eyes with the back of his hands, almost dizzy from standing up and changing environment after all this time. “Second of all, is there any particular reason that would make your considering to become a millionaire an okay thing?”

Courfeyrac sighs tiredly. “Well yes, maybe to find happiness and buy it to you as a birthday present.”

“I am perfectly happy,” is Enjolras immediate, instinctive reply as he joins them on the floor and Combeferre loses no time to push a giant tin box that has actually biscuits and not sewing supplies to his direction. “Eat.”

“Anyway, I was just telling _Combeferre dearest_ that, since he has the wits and I have the inherent talent, we should open a Relationship Advice Bureau,” he makes a dramatic pause, “to help oblivious _friends_ cross the path of the righteous,” he emphasizes on every word and Enjolras doesn’t like the dangerous glint in his eyes at all.

“So would we charge our friends as well?” Combeferre asks with an amused expression and the fact that he seriously looks like he’s considering the idea drives Enjolras crazy.

“Yeah, as if we don’t already have the bet pool,” snorts Courfeyrac and Enjolras opens his mouth to ask but his dark haired friend holds up a hand. “Still,” he smirks teasingly, “our friends could pay in _material._ ”

“Does Jehan know that?” Enjolras raises an eyebrow.

“Keep Jehan out of this,” says Courfeyrac superiorly. “He’s way too punk rock for your sorry face.”

“Feuilly dropped by earlier,” Combeferre mutters casually, taking a biscuit and biting it. “He brought those biscuits that Jehan and Bahorel made ‘for the cruelly suffering holy trinity’ and invited us to some bar where they apparently play music.”

“And me?” are the first words that Enjolras blurts out and immediately feels his cheeks turning red.

“Of course genius,” Courfeyrac rolls his eyes, sneakily confiscating the tin box.

“When you say they…”

“Feuilly, Bahorel and Grantaire.”

Enjolras almost chokes on his biscuit. “They all play music?”

Combeferre shrugs his shoulders. “It seems so.”

“But… but I’ve never heard them practicing…” mumbles Enjolras

“They practice upstairs at Bahorel, that’s where the drums are. To be honest, I'm surprised you haven't been interrupted by them yet and burst out of the house cluttering your weapons,” Courfeyrac explains.

“I can’t come,” Enjolras decides, as he realizes later, out loud. “I’ve got somewhere to be.”

“Yes, and that’s at rue de l’Odéon,” Courfeyrac narrows his eyes. “To hear some gorgeous rock music and forget about those atrocious exams of yours for a while.”

“You have exams too,” Enjolras reminds him.

“Yes but do you know what else I have? That’s right, you don’t. A _life,_ Enjolras, one you should acquire too as soon as possible.”

Enjolras knows how his best friend can get so he doesn’t insist. “Anyway I saw Grantaire yesterday and he didn’t tell me anything so I don’t think I’m particularly welcome,” he says bitterly, an ugly taste similar to that of betrayal coming to taste in his mouth together with an uncomfortable lump on his throat.

“That’s nonsense, Enjolras,” frowns Combeferre. “Our neighbours invited you especially. The earnings are going to the animal shelter Feuilly and Cosette volunteer at. It would hurt their feelings if you didn’t show up, after everything they’ve done to make us feel comfortable since we came here.”

Enjolras is feeling anything but comfortable right now, which also prevents him from feeling sorry. Bars and nights out are hardly his thing yet he knows deep inside that Combeferre is right. He would hate to hurt Bahorel in any way or worse, Feuilly, yet he can’t get out of his mind that Grantaire was there the previous night, playing with his fucking _hair_ and he didn’t say anything.

Grantaire, who plays music. Grantaire who paints, who dances –

Enjolras thinks he’s getting a headache.

“Where did you even see Grantaire in first place?” Courfeyrac suspiciously narrows his eyes. “You didn’t leave home all day yesterday.”

“You were way too absorbed sugaring with Prouvaire to take notice of him leaving.”

“Hold me Combeferre,” mutters Courfeyrac, stretching an arm at Combeferre to squeeze comfortingly. “I’m losing it, I’m _losing it_ I tell you!”

Enjolras ignores his friend’s usual nonsensical behavior, blaming it on the exams together with his helpless romance and turns to Combeferre. “Did he tell you what Grantaire’s playing?” he hears himself asking in an almost breathless voice, as if that piece of insignificant information is currently the most important, life changing matter.

“Feuilly mentioned something about the guitar,” Combeferre shrugs his shoulders. “I might have missed something though, he was already late for work.”

“Oh,” Enjolras nods slowly. The guitar. Of course it would be the guitar.

_Those fingers –_

“The decision is yours Enjolras,” says Combeferre with a softened voice, “you know better what you should do.”

“Well let’s not worry about that now,” Enjolras shakes his head, more than eager to change the subject. “We have to finish our article to visit the municipality office tomorrow morning…”

“I’m sorry Enjolras,” Combeferre cuts him apologetically. “I can’t tomorrow morning, I have to tutor Éponine’s brother.”

The information doesn’t quite sinks in until Enjolras has gotten up and is heading to his room.

“I’m shitting you not Ferre, I can see it coming, I can _feel_ it! Get ready to lose your sweet money!” Courfeyrac says but Enjolras doesn’t hear him over the music that’s echoing from the end of the corridor.

*

“We seriously wouldn’t be alive without all the food you’re providing us with. Especially Enjolras. He hardly eats anything that isn’t sweet during exams and now at least I can feel assured that he won’t pass out like the 2011 incident.”

Grantaire grins absently at Combeferre, already perfectly dressed and ready to leave the apartment. “We owe you big,” the man nods seriously behind his spectacles, as if sweets are the most important thing that could possibly occur in his life. “Though just for the record,” he clears his throat a bit awkwardly, “I have a soft spot for chocolate.”

Grantaire slowly raises an eyebrow. “The Ginger & Ginger Patisserie will keep that in mind,” he teases and Combeferre gives him a grateful, conspiratory smile before taking a piece of apple pie in a napkin and exiting the apartment.

Grantaire does not feel ready to follow his example. His apartment this may not be, but he has never been famous for respecting other people’s privacy. Their old neighbours waking up to find him shirtless and passed out on their couch next to an open window was part of the reason they left. They were some stuffy motherfuckers anyway.

He’s comfortably settled on a kitchen chair, lazily chewing on a piece of burnt apple, absently dreaming of some apple cider when Enjolras the Morning Edition enters the room and Grantaire chokes on the sugary fucking crust.

Because this is hell, there is nothing else this can be, Grantaire is dying, no he’s already dead _so many fucking times_ because Enjolras is not. Wearing. A shirt. What he _is_ wearing is a pair of thick rimmed hipster glasses, and Grantaire is perishing, adieu.

Enjolras looks just as shocked to find him in his kitchen and he has the decency to blush and _holy merde_ _does Grantaire_ _notice_ , the rosy that paints his porcelain cheeks, his baffled blinking behind those atrocious glasses, his revolutionary mess of blond curls and he’s _shirtless_ and pale and made of marble, he’s Apollo incarnate and Grantaire will never be the same again _if_ he survives this…

“Grantaire?” Enjolras asks carefully and just then Courfeyrac bursts into the room, equally shirtless but Grantaire has already had too fucking much to continue living on this planet, let alone to care for Courfeyrac’s six pack when, in Praxiteles' name, he can lay his eyes upon Enjolras’ alabaster chest, his thin yet toned arms, his stupid fucking flat _tummy_ how dare he be so perfect and touchable and kissable – breathe Grantaire he needs to _breathe –_

Courfeyrac has already noticed the tray on the table. “Don’t tell me there’s apple pie in there,” he says with an alarmed expression, his eyes moving from Grantaire to a puzzled Enjolras to the the apple pie and back. “Back off this is MY apple pie!” Courfeyrac literally dives into the table as if anyone’s trying to get his precious pie away from him.

“There’s something… on your nose,” Grantaire can only mutter, pointing at Enjolras’ face, before turning around. “I’ve got to go,thanks for the hospitality,” he says before bursting out of the apartment, trying to remember how to breathe.

“Is it something I did?” Enjolras asks Courfeyrac helplessly, his fingertips probing the tip of his nose in confusion.

“I’m afraid you officially broke R.” His friend just pats his shoulder with a sigh. “Cheer up though, we can go and see the photos of the time we painted Pontmercy’s face in his sleep.”

*

Having grown up with three younger sisters, children had always come naturally to Combeferre. He’s mildly impressed by Eponine’s younger brother yet he manages relatively well to not let himself be overwhelmed. He shakes Gavroche’s hand and takes in all the information he can gather by his appearance. A crooked grin and a couple of broken teeth, dark, freckled skin and sunlit hair, a ratty pair of jeans and a denim spiked jacket that had seen better days in the 90s and looks massive enough to evidently not belong to the child.

“Tell me,” says Combeferre as they sit on the kitchen table, “where should we begin?”

“First of all,” Gavroche says solemnly, “your clothes, ma dear. Shitting with the Police is one thing, but the Fashion Police, now they’re like the _hounds_.”

Combeferre looks down at his tweed jacket. “Now here’s the deal. We do a bit of learning and then you go next door and become Courfeyrac’s protégé. Or make him your own.”

“Do the Courfeyrac has video games?”

“That’s what his species merely consists of. Also bowties and ice cream.”

Gavroche considers the offer thoughtfully. “Okay then, doc. Tis your division to educate me.”

Combeferre takes out a piece of paper to start taking notes. “Is maths a problem?” he asks, almost having already guessed the answer.

“Oh yeah maths be a problem... You should teach my teacher.”

Combeferre lets a small chuckle. “I probably should,” he nods. “How is English?”

“Capital my old chap!”

“And French?”

“J’suis suspendu.”

“Pourquoi ça?”

“I brought Carmen to class.”

“Is Carmen your girl?”

“She’s my spider,” smirks Gavroche mischievously.

“That’s a good choice of species and name, Jehan would be proud of you.”

“What did you think, I get all up in the theatre!” the boy says proudly and Combeferre seriously is not going to question this any further, but he’s already convinced he likes him. “So what’s your biggest trouble?”

“Lice,” Gavroche replies immediately, scratching behind his ear like a puppy.

“Oh, biology then,” says Combeferre trying hard to hide his smile.

“Yeah, let’s learn how long it takes for a cold-ass corpse to rot!”

“Is a corpse part of your immediate plans?”

“No but it’s probably Parnasse’s.”

“Whose corpse?”

“Your corpse.”

Combeferre almost chokes. “Good to know.”

“Listen, smarty pants,” Gavroche eyes him seriously with huge, green eyes that remind nothing of Eponine. “The man you’re looking at be a true pacifist. I like John Lennon and all. I’ll let you do your stuff and even get in Ponine’s pants – cause that’s what you want – but if you hurt her I’ll gut your sorry ass.”

“Understood,” nods Combeferre blankly. “If you care so much about your sister though you shouldn’t forget that she works at night to provide you everything. You should at least make an effort for her.” His tone isn’t lecturing, only stating the truth.

“Where’s your nun veil?” Gavroche huffs and fiddles on his chair impatiently. “I work too okay?”

“Of course you do,” Combeferre nods in agreement, a calm smile tugging on his lips. “Now be too kind as to give me my wallet.”  

“I have no wallet good Sir,” Gavroche widely opens his doe eyes but Combeferre has grown up with Courfeyrac. With a lazy, almost mechanical movement, he produces his wallet from Gavroche’s pocket.

“You picked my pocket!” The boy protests, bewildered and accusing, a flush spreading on his tanned freckly cheeks.

“Nah, merely got back what’s mine,” Combeferre casually waves his hand in the air. “Now, I think we’d stopped at biology. Care to bring me Grantaire’s laptop?”

Eponine returns half an hour later to find them curled on the cushions in the living room, watching videos on Youtube.

“Really?” she places her hands on her hips. “Like, _seriously_? The _poodle moth_?”

“No, sis,” Gavroche corrects her condescendingly. “Biology.”

And Combeferre can do nothing but agree.


	6. Your hands protect the flames of the wild winds around you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You just quoted the Smiths to me,” Enjolras snaps and his cheeks are so flushed, “fucking seriously! You almost threw yourself in front of a truck and you have the cheek to quote the Smiths to me!”
> 
> “Seems pretty fitting to me,” Grantaire shrugs his shoulders with a small smirk.
> 
>  
> 
> _Or the one where Joly the intern reconsiders his life choices because his health is going to be affected by this he'll have you know, Grantaire is really drunk, and Enjolras is really too helpful for his own good. Also Parnasse is a douche but he's also hot don't look at me that's not my fault._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all I'm sorry for taking so long and I'm sorry for all the ridiculous melodrama in this chapter, just Smiths happened and I couldn't help it with those two. I want to apologize for the quality of my writing lately but it was a shitty period in itself and then I got a puppy which completely changed my life and now I hardly have time to breathe. I'm really distracted and the last couple of chapters have really troubled me.  
> Also I apologize for the bad J/B/M introduction here but I always wanted to write them and I always thought I'd fail and apparently I was kind of right so please forgive me.  
> If you can't already tell this chapter is ridiculously relying on the songs I was listening to while writing it because they were just so fucking fitting. I mean, There is a life that never goes out, Drunk (Ed Sheeran), Icarus (Bastille) and even some of Light my fire (The Doors) inevitably happened and I'm so sorry if it's cheap.  
> Last of all, I'm really sorry for all the embarrassing typos but I really couldn't concentrate while cheking this, I'll check it again tonight.  
> Opinions and constructive criticism are always more than appreciated!

The Sunday morning shift in every Emergency Room in Paris is every intern’s nightmare. Joly is already used to the hangovers-gone-bad-gone-really-fucking-awful and to the broken limbs. Every weekend that passes without a car accident is already a success and he can finally breathe only in the evening when he returns home knackered and ready to catch up with some studying.

It finally is the time for his five minute break and he rests his back against the lobby desk, nursing the paper cup with his disgusting coffee and wiping the sweat off his forehead. He’s almost managed to feel himself again before returning to work when he spots a dark haired man entering through the main door, supporting the weight of a limping woman.

Joly snorts his coffee out of his nose.

“I told you I don’t have _money_ for this,” the woman hisses in a breathless, pained voice.

“Yes, yes, you’re welcome. By the way you’re on diet from Monday. Luscious your curves may be, but after carrying you like that I’ll probably need immediate medical assistance.”

“Suck a dick, R.”

“Oh, the possibilities,” Grantaire sighs with a nostalgic smile, stopping in the middle of the room and giving a look around as Joly drops his coffee and runs to their aid.

“What the hell happened?” he gasps, hesitating briefly before the girl looks up at him with dark eyes of a fortune teller, and hisses behind a set of perfect pearl teeth.

“You gonna give a hand?”                                                                                                                                           

Joly is immediately shaken back to his lost professionalism despite the way too alarming acceleration of his pulse, and throws one arm around her shoulders.

“Musichetta slipped on the moped floor,” Grantaire explains merrily, clearly enjoying the whole situation too much for his own good.

“I wanna see you smile like that when we get both our sorry asses fired!”

“Calm your tits Chetta, Cosette’s got our backs.”

“Let’s get you to a room,” Joly says quickly.

“I can _walk_ ,” she hisses and fuck that can hardly be healthy, she has those wild curls of hers in Joly’s face and they smell of jasmine and fresh baguette and he knows he’s fucked up, so grievously fucked up…

He helps them stumble their way into a room, looking nervously around as if he’s sneaked in a patient who’ll spread cholera in the whole accommodation. They help her sit on a gurney and he desperately searches for Grantaire’s eye. “What do I do I’m not in my leather pants!” he mouths in horror and Grantaire disguises his choked chuckling sound to a cough.

“Oh spring allergies have got you?” Joly cries sympathetically. “Me too!”

“Yeah okay now fix the lady,” sighs Grantaire in exasperation, throwing him a murderous Your Sorry Ass Owes Me look. 

Joly’s got palpitations and if he dies in his workplace then that will probably be Grantaire’s fault. He had almost forgotten how lovestruck he’d been from the very first second he laid his eyes upon her glowing, chocolate skin, her full lips and small, delicate hands. She’s gorgeous and Joly _has_ to stay alive because he has to finish his practice and learn the secret of Combeferre’s lasagna first –

He’s babbling. Of course he’s babbling. Internally. Not out loud. Yet. He’s got this. He can manage. With surprisingly steady hands he takes her foot and carefully unlaces her tennis shoe. She hisses in pain which makes enough sense, considering how bad it looks. Later Joly will be proud for the way he manages to maintain his composure, as he gently prods her swollen ankle, feeling her flinch but not pull away.

“It’s sprained,” he proclaims, turning around to browse in the cupboard for a bandage, “badly at that. You’ll be fine soon though, I’ll just wrap it, you can apply ice until the swelling goes away and promise you’ll take it easy for a couple of days.”

“When you say take it easy…” she murmurs, relatively softened and concerned herself.

“…I mean you can’t stand at the café.”

“Well watch me do it,” she narrows her eyes again.

Joly opens his mouth to reply but his phone starts buzzing in his pocket and he reaches for it, taken that he’s not in the middle of something really urgent apart maybe from the problem of his aching, enamored heart. He’s oddly alarmed when he sees Bossuet’s number, and he immediately picks it up.

“I’m coming and bearing your Eagle!” he receives Bahorel’s loud, cheerful voice instead, together with traffic sounds.

“Are you driving and talking on the phone?” is his first reaction.

“Well my escort is a bit incapable of speaking to you right now.”

“What did you do to him?” Joly shrieks.

“You’re welcome and nothing,” Bahorel defends himself, stopping mid-sentence to growl at some other annoying driver, “he tripped off the stairs.”

“Oh my _God_ Bahorel what happened? Is he hurt?”

“Nah, only his head,” chirps Bahorel and Joly has to grip on the gurney himself.

“His HEAD?” Joly is sure he’s having an apoplexy and it’s Musichetta who grabs his arm to support him.

“Oh yeah,” says Bahorel in an excited voice, “he has a huge ugly bald bump on his head and he’s waxing poetic about my biceps. This is definitely going on a Vine!”

Joly collapses on the gurney and an unimpressed Musichetta pats his head. “That your boyfriend?” she asks.

“Not. My boyfriend.” It’s obvious from the tone of Joly’s voice that he’s been obliged to clarify that again a couple of times in the past.

“Oh I see,” she nods with a small smile, “‘No Homo’, then?”

“I didn’t say anything…” Joly lets a small groan, his cheeks adorably flushed.

“So ‘Yes Homo’?”

“No. Yes. Ugh, please stop this, it’s the caffeine that upsets me, here, feel my pulse?”

Musichetta is now looking thoroughly amused as Grantaire places a hand on her shoulder, mouthing at her to not enter this territory, yet he doesn’t need to as Joly snaps, throwing them both a meter high in the air that “It happened only _once_ and we were both drunk and I don’t KNOW okay?”

And just then Bahorel and Bossuet somehow manage to stumble their ways in the hospital room, the latter faltering on the gurney next to a bewildered Musichetta. Joly regains his composure and peers over him with interest mixed with worry. “Fancy seeing you here again, mon ami!” he grins goofily and Grantaire rolls his eyes at the direction of a thoroughly amused Bahorel.

“Did it hurt when you fell from heaven?” breathes Bossuet dazedly at Musichetta.

“No darling, though it probably hurt when you fell from the stairs,” she chuckles, and Joly gently brushes his fingers on Bossuet’s cheek, unable to contain his contagious smile.

“Not as much as I hurt now,” Bossuet sighs and an alarmed Joly attacks him with a penlight.

“Where? Where do you hurt?”

“Here,” Bossuet dramatically brings a hand to his heart and Joly’s eyes open wide in shock.

The young intern reaches for Bossuet’s pulse. “Your heart is racing!”

“It’s not my fault that the both of you are so beautiful…”

“Bossuet baby you’re concussed,” Joly squeaks, his own heart ready to explode out of his chest, turning to face his friends as if they haven’t heard his stirring diagnosis. “Definitely concussed!” he nods gravely.

“Awesome,” roars Bahorel. “Now we’ll leave you to it.”

“Have a very lovely ménage à trois.”

“Yeah, no need to thank us.”

“Letting us watch would be nice.”

Bahorel and Grantaire leave the room arm to arm and Joly is left behind, exhaling deeply. “I’ll keep you to patch this up and run some tests,” he smacks a kiss on Bossuet’s bald head who clings on his scrubs and nuzzles his face in his shoulder. Joly turns to Musichetta. “I’d very much like to keep you too,” he says, “just to make sure nothing else is injured.”

“You mean apart from my dignity?” she raises a gorgeously shaped, mischievous eyebrow. “I guess I have to thank you somehow,” she makes a dramatic pause. “And treat the veteran over here. How does a coffee sound?”

“Oh I can’t,” Joly chirps cheerfully. “I’ve already had one today and too much coffee gives me tachycardia.”

Musichetta stays quiet for a minute and Bossuet stares at them both with horror – or maybe pain – but then she reaches for her purse. “What about tea?”

“My grandma says,” Joly’s face lights up, "tea is always a good idea!"

Very nice indeed.

*

_What doesn’t kill you doesn’t make you stronger –_

_At all._

Take me out, he slurs and Éponine obliges. Having your best friend working at a bar is a guarantee for a shorter way into oblivion, and free. He despises himself and the addiction slowly eating his body rotten from inside out, yet he welcomes the poison that comes to drip life into his veins almost ecstatically. He downs one drink after the other in the decadent LED flashes of the bar, the beat of the music pumping inside him as his head begins to spin and he drowns deeper and deeper, from one level of intoxication to the other, until all of his fears have blurred into shadows.

“Moutta rolling paper,” he frowns at Éponine and stands up, trying to stop the world from spinning. She’s too busy working to get out with him for a cig and, escaping her notice, he stumbles his way out of the bar because there are chains tugging in his chest and he can’t breathe.

His feet lead the way without his full consent, he’s past the point of being able to form coherent thoughts anyway. He’s fucking pissed and he greedily savors every minute of it. He’s almost reached the doorway, he realizes absently, and a still conscious part of his mind is begging to remember nothing in the morning, nothing at all, not ever.

He just stands there on the pavement, watching the lights go green and red again and again, counting mechanically. He’d always sucked at maths. Fuck this. A hundred thousand times, he’s sure that’s how many it is. Enough green lights to fill a fucking eternity, or eleven. Green, so bright and lively, alarming and drowning like absinthe, people quickly crossing the street, traffic lights and noises, the night passing before his eyes without him being able to get a grip of it, to follow the people. He just stands there and stares, taking one sip after the other from the sticky paper cup in his hand mechanically, waiting almost mesmerized for the Red light to freeze everything, even his breath, even the redder blood pounding in his veins.

And then he sees him and his chance has come at last, he can’t think properly anymore because it’s neither red nor green, it’s a vast explosion of gold reflecting against the damp black Parisian road, a strange fear just grips him and he _can’t_ because it’s Apollo standing on the opposite side of the Boulevard and their eyes lock, the man – no, the _God –_ is looking mildly alarmed and this is how it feels to take a fall.

The next thing he knows is that he’s in hell, _everything_ is hell, a complete chaos, car horns and furious shouts and desperate cries and most of all, the brightest lights of a truck that stops abruptly blinding him and _can this be heaven_ but no, it’s the sound of death, the most obscene sound of wheels screeching against the street, an enraged driver that bursts out and shouts, hands that grip on his arms and pull him back – fucking _stop it_ can’t you see it’s bringing him a headache?

“WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING DO YOU WANT TO KILL YOURSELF?”

He turns around, safe and incapable of caring for the terrified or hateful looks of the passers-by and the sounds of the traffic he almost stopped, and lingers into the touch with a dazed smile. “To die by your side,” he breathes, turning his head to be faced with Enjolras whose beautiful face is a terrible marble mask of rage, “is such a heavenly way to die.”

“You just quoted the  _Smiths_ to me,” Enjolras snaps and his cheeks are _so_ flushed, “fucking _seriously_! You almost threw yourself in front of a truck and you have the cheek to quote the Smiths to me!”

“Seems pretty fitting to me,” Grantaire shrugs his shoulders with a small smirk.

“You’re wasted, you stink,” Enjolras grimaces in disgust before tugging on Grantaire’s arm. “Come on, I’m dropping you home, though it would serve you right to leave you here to get beat up in some alley.”

“Please don’t drop me home because it’s not my home! – ” Grantaire starts singing loudly in a mock dramatic voice but Enjolras is fast enough to cover his mouth with his palm.

“Shut up,” he hisses, “you’ll wake the whole neighborhood!” But then something warm and wet and Enjolras pulls his palm away as if stricken by electricity, finding it really hard to punch Grantaire straight on the face. “You licked me,” he growls, pulling him more violently this time. “God you’re disgusting, I should have let that truck run you over.”

“Maybe you should,” Grantaire hums in an odd, cheerful voice, but there’s a hint of sadness shadowing his glowing blue eyes.

“No you know what, I really should,” mutters Enjolras grumpily as Grantaire clings on him, and he reeks of whiskey and cigarettes and other things he doesn’t want to think about, he’s so warm against the cold Parisian night breeze, the hem of his shirt rolling up on his waist and his skin is _burning_ when it comes in contact with his knuckles, and Enjolras doesn’t mean it, he knows he doesn’t…

“Oh Apollo,” he slurs, “you’re so pretty, you’re like the sun - ” the corners of his lips upturn to a crooked smile, “you light my _fire_.”

On second thoughts, maybe he does.

“Are we taking all the rock bands in existence?”

“Nah, too sleepy for that.”              

“Where’s… where are your friends?” pants Enjolras, the wider man’s weight already heavy against his exhausted body.

“Bar. Sex. Other bar,” Grantaire mentally counts one after the other, or so it seems to Enjolras. “Work.” The last one’s probably Feuilly. And Enjolras assumes that one of the two bars must be Éponine who’s working too. He’s planning on giving them a pretty serious talk in the morning, after he’s granted his knackered being with some sleep, _if_ they manage to stumble their way at the door.

“This is disgusting,” he murmurs, never stopping to reconsider his life choices, “ _You’re_ disgusting. Look at you,” he gives him a disdainful look that’s met with an ironic grin, “you’ll drink yourself to death one day.”

“Not until I drink you,” Grantaire leans to huskily whisper in his ear and he finds himself shutting his eyes just for a second, or maybe an eternity, his breath hitching on his throat because God Grantaire’s breath is warm like a fever and it brushes against his skin _so_ _softly_ and Enjolras momentarily wonders whether he’s drunk too without being aware of it because this is _Grantaire,_ Grantaire who doesn’t look when he’s crossing the road, Grantaire who reeks of alcohol and always mocks him, but he eventually decides that he simply needs to sleep. He hates to admit it but Courfeyrac is probably right, these finals are sucking the life out of him.

“You’re completely shitfaced,” he rolls his eyes, surprised at the hoarseness of his own voice as he pulls Grantaire to follow him, only a few steps left… “And I’m not Apollo. He was an asshole and I hate it when you call me that so stop it.”

“On the contrary,” breathes Grantaire and Enjolras tries hard to not meet his penetrating gaze as they lean against the wall of the building and Enjolras fumbles in his pockets for the key. “Look around you, look at all the art and the nature, painting and sculpture and the chaos that swelters them all, the ecstatic dancing that’ll rob you of your mind. You are Apollo, the Greekest of Gods, youthful and chaste, a pure deliverer of justice and beauty, and at the same time capable of the destruction that exceeds any imagination. You bring everybody together under the light of your conviction, in your face they find the freedom they want to get drunk in yet I can merely irrigate myself with cheap wine. You strive to heal society of its maladies but then you kill with your bow and arrows again and again, you spread death but oh so painlessly, you’d never deny to kill just with one graceful look of yours. You’re not the muse of the artists – you own all of them. You’re the prophet of the mortals, you and your naïve foresighting that tastes so fucking sweet, what nectar and what ambrosia, and I’m Dionysus, sweltering and dark, chthonic and barbaric, whose Maenads will mangle your Orpheus but then he’ll become a prophet of my rituals and I, a martyr at your feet,” Enjolras has passed through numerous levels of astonishment because Grantaire is suddenly looking so sober and at the same time drunker than he’s ever seen him before and Enjolras opens his mouth to tell him to shut up but Grantaire holds up a hand and doesn’t let him to speak or maybe Enjolras doesn’t let himself…

“We’re opposites, you see, as if you hadn’t noticed from the very beginning, with the first disdainful look you threw on my pitiful, carnivorous existence. It’s the drunk ecstasy in murderous light, the harmony within each other’s chaotic existence, the dithyramb and the paean that shall be reunited at the Delphi, at _your_ Delphi, your streets, wherever the fuck your fucking kingdom is Apollo, at the climax of your fallen pretty revolution, and there will be blood and death and people – hope, light, _hope_ ,” Grantaire isn’t making sense anymore and Enjolras has acquired a headache long ago and only now he realizes the violent thrumming in his chest as the dark haired man leans closer, so that their breaths almost mingle together in the cold breeze, “I’ll be there even when your Delphi start to decay Apollo, your dreams may be dead then yet Orphic worship shall come to follow the Bacchic and give the hope of resurrection, and then,” Grantaire takes a sudden breath, almost a gasp before the climax of his neverending slurring ramble. “And then,” he exhales, “you’ll never die.”

“God you’re so pretentious,” is the first thing that a shell-shocked Enjolras can breathe, only then realizing that they’re still standing out there in the doorway, his whole body shivering at the Parisian deceiving spring. “Is all this bullshit Nietzsche? I’m pretty sure it’s Nietzsche.” He finally unlocks the door and peers inside, not daring to pull Grantaire with him. “You shouldn’t flatter yourself so much.”

“I’m just uneloquent,” Grantaire smirks sarcastically, as the two of them end up in the sweltering closeness of the elevator.

“You’re drunk, so fucking drunk,” the blond huffs, exhaustion together with a murderous headache throbbing in his meninges and he turns his gaze around because right now he hates Grantaire and he doesn’t and he wishes he knew but he _can’t._ “You say _nothing_ , how do you even manage that?”

“I don’t even _talk_ ,” smirks Grantaire and Enjolras turns to face him, flustered and abrupt, and so frustrated that he wants it all to _stop._

“Be serious,” he mutters under his breath and only then does he realize how shorter Grantaire really is, shoved in that tiny, slow elevator with him and nobody else in the whole fucking universe, too many seconds and too few breaths for them to share, too suffocating for him to bare –

_Too much…_

“I’m wild,” breathes Grantaire, looking up at him, and for a second the world stops because Enjolras is drowning, deeper and deeper in those blue eyes and how he wishes he could swim…

The elevator announces they’re on their floor with a struggling sound and he has to gather all of his remaining energy to push the door with his shoulder and get outside, Grantaire faltering dangerously on the dark corridor. He has to grab his arm to keep him from tripping over his own feet and he huffs tiredly because he can’t have more of this, it’s mentally and physically impossible and he has to be up in the morning, he has to study, he has to…

“Keys,” slurs Grantaire.

“Right. Where are your keys?” Enjolras asks impatiently.

“Inside.”

“Fuck,” spits Enjolras. “Fuck, _fuck_ ,” he presses the bridges of his hands against his forehead. “You know what?” he raises his eyes. “Fuck you, Grantaire.”

“Anytime,” the drunk man hums pleasantly. “No need to be like that, my savior. I’ll simply crash at your humble abode and cook you hungover breakfast to thank you for your kind hospitality!”

“Or I could just leave you sleep here on the doormat,” mutters Enjolras, unlocking the door of his apartment and peering in the dark living room. The windows are half open, sign that both Combeferre and Courfeyrac are already home, sleeping soundly in their relative rooms. “Would serve you better than sleeping off your fumes on the floor, or in the bathtub. I should let you choke on your own puke for all I care,” he whispers, matter of fact, taking a deep breath. “But you already know that I’ll do neither. The couch would serve you far too well but if Combeferre or Courfeyrac wake up in the middle of the night they’ll see you there,” he cringes at the mental image, as he leads Grantaire to his bedroom. “So take my fucking bed, okay?” he almost growls through gritted teeth.

“If you wanted to get me in your bed you could have just asked,” Grantaire shrugs his shoulders, kicking off his boots and falling back on the comfortable mattress with ease, not even bothering for the still turned off lights.

“Right,” Enjolras shuts his eyes tightly to prevent the headache that’s now blinding his gaze. He realizes that he hasn’t had a proper night’s sleep in so long yet he considers leaving Grantaire here and taking his textbooks in the living room just to finish that one chapter because how will he manage to do everything, _when_?

“So,” the hoarse, quiet voice from the middle of the room shakes him back to reality, “won’t your grace be joining us? Or do you plan passing out on the floor?”

“Uh, I’ll go to the couch,” he replies dully, “leave you to it, and all.”

There is a quiet pause where Enjolras fumbles in the dark room for his brick sized textbook. Then Grantaire’s speaks. “It’s a big enough bed two bear us both and our egos.”

“Nah it’s okay.” It really isn’t. He’s fucking knackered and the couch had always left him with a sore neck for days.

“I’m not putting you off your bed…”

“Grantaire, drop the chivalry,” Enjolras sighs tiredly. “Just try to survive the night.”

“I need adult supervision,” Grantaire slurs. “And you’re either sleeping in your bed or I’m sleeping on the floor.”

Enjolras sighs deeply and, even though he doesn’t really care whether Grantaire will eventually sleep on the floor or not, he realizes that he’s too tired to study, too tired to go anywhere but his warm, comfortable bed and, even though he’ll deeply regret it in the morning, all he can do is give in to the demands of his body and climb under the covers, not even bothering to change into his sweats.

It isn’t easy to sleep next to another man, not when he smells of alcohol and tobacco and he’s lying so comfortably on your own bed. Enjolras might be exhausted but he lies still on his back, not daring to move a limb, counting his every breath and trying hard to focus on the sounds of the traffic from outside the window and not on those of their bodies because he can feel the warmth Grantaire radiating and it’s _so close…_

“It’s real fucking warm,” Grantaire hums approvingly and Enjolras feels him shifting under the covers. His voice is still a drunken slur, sleepy, almost gentle. “A place can get cold if you cut the heating.”

Enjolras’ chest clenches tightly. He remains silent for a while, then still lying on his back he opens his mouth in the dark to reply. Before he’s able to whisper a word, he can hear Grantaire’s breathing evening out next to him, and soon turning to peaceful snores.

The room is pitch dark but soon his eyes get used to the lights and the shadows of the cars and the moon coming from outside the window, but Enjolras doesn’t take his eyes away from the ceiling.

It takes a heavy blink, then another, and he falls asleep.

*

“You should bring us the double quantity for all the clothes we’re giving you in return,” growls Éponine.

“They’re second hand,” mutters Montparnasse defensively even though he’s still greedily going through the plastic bags that contain all of his precious new belongings, browsing through them with those terrifying red claws of his.

“They’re vintage, educate yourself,” frowns Jehan from the couch, already rolling a cigarette between his fingers, his own nails a peeling night blue with tiny glittery stars on them.

Montparnasse thoughtfully holds a pair of black leather pants in front of his figure. “My killer hips won’t fit in this,” he mutters, having forgotten everyone else in the room but himself.

Éponine snorts loudly.

“How’s the teletubby you’re stalking?” he asks sweetly, poison palpable on his every syllable and, without expecting an answer, proceeds. “I don’t know what he sees in his rainbow pixie in first place, I’ve seen her and she’s fat.”

Éponine narrows her eyes slowly. “You’re a fucking douche,” she hisses.

“I’m your favorite douche,” he murmurs, throwing her a murderous look behind his thick dark eyelashes.

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“You’d _kill_ to have Cosette’s fashion sense,” Jehan hums pleasantly, inhaling a slow drag of smoke. “Or half of her _clothes_.” His smile is more than dangerous, and Montparnasse knows well enough to hiss like Maenad – who’s locked in Grantaire’s room like every time that Montparnasse comes home and she threatens to rip off his eye bulbs – and shut the fuck up.

“Okay elf, don’t get your knickers in a knot,” he mutters hoarsely before eyeing them both coldly. “Where’s your Emo pet anyway?”

Before he’s able to finish his sentence Éponine has grabbed the collar of his tight leather coat and pulled him close to her face, even though she’s almost a head shorter than him. “Listen here, killer dandelion,” she growls with glowing eyes, “talk shit for him one more time and I’ll fucking piss on your Forever 21 _Versace_!”

That does it immediately because splatters of rose paints his pale-as-death face and they both know he’s rarely looked so threatening. “If you say that out loud once more…” he hisses, his grip almost shaking on her arm.

Just then there is a knock on the door and Jehan stands up to open with a tired sigh. Montparnasse quickly pulls away from Éponine and dusts his coat, making his own way at the door. He falls face to face with a flustered Enjolras who sports the biggest eye bags Éponine has ever seen.

“Hey Blondie,” Montparnasse gives a cold, seductive smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, giving the newcomer an onceover. “Enjoy yourself,” he says meaningfully before disappearing in the corridor.

Enjolras enters the apartment, showing no interest for Montparnasse whatsoever. He unwillingly sniffs the room. “Does your little brother grow up here?” he asks Éponine disbelievingly, throwing Jehan a mildly disappointed look.

“Nah it’s okay, my little brother grows up in at a cosy place where they _sell_ that stuff watching his father hit his mother but you don’t need to worry because most of the time my little brother doesn’t even return home,” Éponine says in a sharp, bitter voice.

“You okay?” Jehan asks, mildly concerned. “You look upset.”

“Listen, I wanted to talk,” Enjolras says quickly, looking around as if someone’s chasing him. “Is Grantaire here?”

Éponine and Jehan exchange a worried look. “He’s locked into his room and he won’t come out,” Jehan eventually answers, keeping his voice carefully quiet. “He does that sometimes,” he rushes to explain, “he didn’t tell us where he spent the night.”

“And,” Enjolras takes a deep breath, “is he alone?”

Éponine and Jehan exchange a dark look but do not answer. They both know the young leader means ‘with or without the Jack’?

“I see,” he nods curtly, pressing his lips into a thin line as his eyes falling briefly on the little plastic bag Montparnasse has left on the coffee table. “Do you seriously think you’re helping him?” he raises his eyes at them both and Jehan looks particularly uncomfortable, his pale cheeks flushing and his fingers nervously fidgeting with a thread of his sweater.

“Enjolras, he needs some space…”

“Space my ass, _help_ is what he needs!”

“Will you kindly lower your charming voice because he’ll – ”

“He can hear what he may I don’t give a fuck,” Enjolras is looking out of control as he raises his voice, throwing his hands in the air in exasperation. “Your friend is digging his own grave with every day that passes and what do we all do to _stop him_?”

“Shut up – ”

“Grantaire is an adult – ”

“Grantaire is a hazard to himself! Don’t you see? You’ll find him beaten up in a fucking alley or choked in his own vomit!”

“Enough, Enjolras,” Jehan raises his voice, deep and calm. “We care for him as much as you do and we have done so for years, okay?”

“It’s not _that_ ,” snaps Enjolras. “No actually do you know what? If you really cared for him then you’d do something for the fuck up…”

“Enough,” they hear a hoarse voice coming from the end of the corridor, and they all freeze in their position. Grantaire stands at the door of the room, looking groggy and terribly hungover, his dark curls wild and unwashed, sticking in all different directions and dark circles under his eyes to match Enjolras’. He’s clad in an enormous grey hoodie that makes him look oddly small and Enjolras looks completely dumbstruck as he tries to open his mouth and say something. “No,” Grantaire holds up a hand. “I think you should go, Enjolras.”

Enjolras’ cheeks flush bright red as he turns almost instinctively to Éponine. “Go,” she says hoarsely, and a softer Jehan walks him to the door.

“Sorry about that,” he then walks back to his friend, looking a bit stunned and equally embarrassed. “He means well. I don’t know what’s happened between you two but…”

Grantaire holds up a hand. “Not your fault. Just… drop it, Jehan.”

Éponine stretches out her hands and massages his shoulders as they take a seat on the couch. “You okay?” she asks carefully.

It takes a while before he raises his eyes and cracks a bitter smile. “I’m okay,” he nods almost mechanically and it’s obvious that neither believes him. “It’s just…”

“What is it?” Jehan kneels on the floor and wraps his arms around his legs. “What do you need?”

“I need…” Grantaire’s hand subconsciously comes to rest on his bicep and he chews on his lower lip before their eyes meet. “I think I want a new tattoo.”


	7. With grace in your heart and flowers in your hair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras raises an eyebrow. “I’m not planning anything. I’m asking you what you want us to do.”
> 
> “For a revolutionary you’re very indecisive,” Grantaire smirks.
> 
> Enjolras blushes and it’s so adorable Grantaire wants to punch his rosy face. “Well everyone keeps saying how well you know Paris and I thought you’d have some idea.” A pause where he bites his bottom red lip – _punch him, punch him_ … “And it’s not like hanging out is really my thing so…”
> 
> “Yeah, having a life hardly suits you at all, I can tell,” Grantaire says sarcastically as he briefly thinks of their life choices. “What about doing some museums? You know, education and all?”
> 
> Enjolras frowns like a petulant child and he says the last thing Grantaire had ever expected to hear. “I don’t really like museums.”
> 
> “You of all people? The nerd extraordinaire? I’d thought you’d piss yourself at the suggestion!” _Or maybe just, you know, kiss me. And then hold me as I die._
> 
> _Or the one where Jehan has melancholy, Enjolras has spring allergies -yes, Joly too- and Grantaire has an ungodly amount of tattoos. Everyone is generally having a bad day, but then they remember they're in Paris so they go to the gardens._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a massive writer's block lately and it's the worst kind of writer's block. If you've seen that post around on Tumblr, I know exactly what's going to happen and how but it just doesn't come into words so please forgive the overall clumsiness. I really want to hear your ideas on it so go on! Also I'm pretty open to the plot of this story, adding stuff all the time and all, so if there's something specific you'd want to read, please tell me!  
> Opinions and constructive criticism are more than welcome.  
> WARNING: Panic attacks. I know that most of my latest stories have Enjolras and panic attacks but it's something I need to write because Enjolras and his anxiety is so important for me.

Jean Prouvaire had always taken his finals lightly, being one of the blessed to know what they wanted to study and being privileged enough to do that exact thing, unlike Bahorel, for instance, whose courage to even turn up to a class a month while he hated everything was, in the eyes of the younger man, a pretty determined and courageous act that should render Bahorel a role model for the kids and all that. Jehan had never particularly stressed over his studying and still managed to do admirably well most of the time.

It was the first term that Jehan _hadn’t_ done admirably well. In fact he hadn’t done well at all. It wasn’t that he hadn’t studied, it wasn’t that he had been overly stressed. It was somehow worse. This month he’d hardly been able to throw himself out of his bed most of the mornings, it took a considerable effort to smile to the customers that came to the bookshop and even explaining about the language of flowers made him sick, the sole fact that there was somewhere he _had_ to be even though he was more than well paid and he normally loved the place and Monsieur Mabeuf with Madame Plutarch made him feel anything but limited and oppressed.

It was ugly, it was dark and it angered him. That numb feeling that slowly creeped from beneath his damp sheets every dawn and gripped around his wrists and ankles like slippery tentacles of a water demon. He just didn’t know what bothered him, it was this or that or nothing really, and he hated how it made him feel like a petulant child, him, a man surrounded by loving friends and accepting parents, young and healthy and able to gain a good education, yet he was not sucking knowledge as greedily as he always had in the past. It angered him because he simply felt tired while sleeping most of the day, and sometimes even the beautiful, blooming flowers in his small magical garden would look dull and plastic, their scent fake and nauseating, like that of a cheap perfume that normally didn’t bother him at all, common, almost obscene. There were those tiny smouldering seconds that felt like thirteen eternities when he’d stare at them and wish they’d wither, but then again they never would because Feuilly would always come downstairs and water them before leaving for work in the most ungodly hours of a dopey, thick white Paris, quietly doing him a service that sometimes dared to feel like a quiet offence straight to Jehan’s lack of preservation for everything he loved, a mute accusation for the deep, dark bags under his eyes.

It had happened in the past yet, after meeting a group of people with whom he shared opinions, who understood and appreciated him, after feeling like he finally belonged there, he’d thought that this had stopped, that it was something he had under control, there was no reason to _try_ and be happy since happiness was so obvious and palpable, so close and easy to achieve, its eyes were green and they had the color of green meadows and the sun that lit them burning in that passionate voice.

It was mostly related to his writing, he concluded. It had happened to Grantaire before when colors just wouldn’t cooperate, and cold sweat would flow easier than acrylics. They had held each other through it, Grantaire had painted fairytales on his naked body, carnations and rainbows and wings of lace, flames of color that hugged his arms and thighs like branches of an old willow, and the sea, the whole of it flowing on his back, pulling on his skin as it dried, salty and atoning. Then he would write of his friend, illustrate the pages with words that would keep him – them – forever alive on the yellowish paper, and it was okay. They gave each other inspiration and reminded not to give up. It was okay to lie down and not try for a while, just the two of them with no limit but the starless sky. They never tried to pose each other limits, instead they were always exceeding them. They drank and smoke and made sure that the other was feeling okay, that they had what the needed and what set them free for the time being. When the morning came they would take care of each other and help them back out, steady steps of a toddler towards the shyly peeking sun. 

Now Grantaire was getting darker and Jehan hated it, he was scared and he loathed the feeling because it was not like him. He was unafraid, he embraced the storm and wisely treasured the tears, he was attracted by the fire and seduced by the revolution of nature, yet when it came to his own self and to the thoughts that lingered in his mind and twirled like grey, suffocating smoke, Jehan felt like he lost control and that was more horrible than anything else.

He was happy most of the time, insanely happy, but then he just wouldn’t be. His studies were what he’d always wanted yet they didn’t guarantee a pass to his dreams, there were the days when the words that would come out seemed wrong, biased, and as biased as the words flowed, such was the struggle to accomplish the goal of gripping the end of the day with a smile frozen on his face.  

Oh happiness, dark satin curls and radiant smiles, painfully touchable yet so unrequited. If it weren’t for Courfeyrac to wake his heart from his slumber and make him explode with emotions, pulling the covers and taking him out every weekend, a ritual – _their_ ritual, he thought selfishly, greedily, the one thing the two of them would never have to share with anyone else – he would have spent the whole exam period stormed under his notes and moping in bed without even taking a shower. And now he’s fucked up the first exam in his life and Courfeyrac is here, completely unwilling to let him stay inside.

Courfeyrac finds Jehan in his garden, clad only in a pair of bright floral trousers that cling tightly on him. He’s wearing shoes this time but his lithe ankles are bare and he’s not wearing a shirt. His breath hitches on his throat. Jehan could have been painted by Renoir, spot next to sweet spot, the pink gillyflowers of his chest rendered almost alabaster from the bright sunrays, like the rich gardenias he always smells like, a constellation of freckles scattered on his – unexpectedly – toned shoulders, peeking playfully under the loose locks of red silk that shines like an abundance of chrysanthemums under the hot spring sun and Courfeyrac wants to kiss him and kiss him everywhere…

“Do we have a shirtless thing?”

Jehan’s cheeks turn rose and it’s so sinfully adorable, the way Courfeyrac always startles him from his daydreaming and he blushes like a chaste dove when, in fact, he’s anything but that. “You don’t count,” Jehan replies in a hoarse voice, scrunching up his face as the sun hits his eyes. “You’re practically shirtless half of the time so it’s statistically impossible for the rest of us innocent decent people to steer clear of such demonstrations.”

“Yes well you’re welcome, the pleasure and the privilege is yours.”

Jehan chuckles.

“What are you reading?”

“Rimbaud.”

“Cursed and all?”

“Yeah, so they say.”

“See, I’m poetically inclined.”

“We all are even if we don’t know it. The way you look at everything you love, the way you smell and the way you laugh… That’s poetry and Russian formalists can’t convince me otherwise.”

“You okay?”

A pause.

“Yeah, your exams over?”

“Yep. Free as a bird. Did you take your results?”

All that Jehan can do is chuckle once again. It sounds wrong, hollow. Courfeyrac doesn’t comment on it. He doesn’t lose any time. “We’re going out,” he announces, and it’s all that there is. Jehan has no chance.

No one does spring as Paris does. The Notre Dame is standing majestic, seeming to be scraping the sun instead of being merely touched by its rays. They walk between the first tourist waves of spring at the 6éme arrondissement, between the shops and little cafés, and Courfeyrac feels like dancing, like he has wings and he can fly, free and powerful, having everything that he needs and more than that. It’s a feast, every minute is a feast and he can hardly contain his urge to grab Jehan from his slender waist and hold him and twirl and _dance._

They inevitably end up at Shakespeare and Company. Jehan is a completely different person than he was an hour ago, now resembling an overly excited puppy that’s been granted an unexpected walk at the park. “Just to brush up my English,” he excuses himself, his face lit up, and Courfeyrac whose English is majestic as he always boasts (though it really is not, it’s Combeferre’s that’s majestic, given the London blood that runs in his veins, for Courfeyrac it’s more confidence than grammar when he enthusiastically throws all the French words he knows in every sentence yet it’s still better than Enjolras and his atrocious accent).

The two of them carry as many books as they can considering that they can’t afford half of them and curl on Jehan’s favorite old sofa next to the piano. A teenage girl comes and plays Joe Dassin and Courfeyrac smiles, he asks Jehan about his accordion and they end up scribbling and doodling in a spare notebook as customers come and go and the light comes in through the sunlit window that faces the Notre Dame.

By the time they leave the bookshop they’re both glowing as naturally as it lately comes to them, and going back doesn’t even feel like a possibility.

*

There are days, and then there are those days when the alarm doesn’t go off. They’re the same days when he just has to miss his bus and the coffee machine just has to break, and he’s not just groggy, he’s torn and knackered and all of his muscles are aching but no more than the revolt that his head is pulling against him. There are those days when he sleeps bad and he wakes up even worse, when he goes to sit for his last exam and instead of getting a weight lifted off his chest, his mind forgets to function and the right answer won’t come and the minutes tick on the clock, before he knows it his time is over and he has royally fucked up, cold sweat is breaking on his upper lip and his breathing’s a race which has him exhausted by the time he hands in what feels like his itinerary to failure.

He has an appointment with his professor after that, to discuss the progress of his thesis which leaves him with the beginnings of a headache crippling just behind his ears and spreading dangerously and maybe it’s just his spring allergies which have burst again, his nose is running and his lungs are burning as he walks – no, _runs –_ on the pavement, cursing through gritted teeth to keep himself distracted, rhythmically, almost a ritual. No, _no_ he can’t let that happen, he knows it just adds up and it will go downwards again, he must keep it under control, he can’t let this…

But then his phone buzzes and his head is already spinning too much to bother and check the ID which inevitably turns out to be his mother with her sweet nothings that, in reality, pierce like knives, her disgust and disapproval for his choices, the amount of _your father_ ’s she can stick in a single sentence and completely ruin him, the silent tut of her tongue which almost makes him swear he can hear the rhythmical clicking of her heels against the marble floor, they’re now clicking in his head, echoing like daggers in his ears and he takes a deep breath that doesn’t ease the tension in his chest, he reminds to himself that he doesn’t care, _he_ _doesn’t._

When he hangs up he’s left shaking in the middle of the platform, having already lost his metro. A lady asks him if he’s alright, darling and he answers that yes, quite alright, thank you. He can hardly stand upright and keep his head from spinning in the metro. He hates the early spring warmth that covers him in sweat and makes his t-shirt stick between his shoulder blades, it’s so warm and so tight in the buzzing wagon, all those people coming and going and breathing the air that’s already not enough, there’s an ugly feeling pooling in his stomach, he studied so hard, he put _so much_ effort in this and yet he failed, the exam has been a fuck up and Grantaire… so warm, clinging on his shoulders, reeking of misery and alcohol, Grantaire breathing peacefully in his bed next to him, the room pitch dark that he can’t see his sleeping form but he can feel it _God he can,_ Grantaire behind a shut door, coming out of his room, pessimism marking those thin lips that never stop mocking him, coldness shadowing his blue eyes that can hardly hide their hate…

His fingers are already trembling as he shoves the key in the hole and unlocks the door. He doesn’t know how he gets in his apartment but here he is, standing in the middle of his bedroom and trying to distract himself from the painful throbbing in his head yet the fingers reaching for – heaven forbid – his textbook, just to check those answers, are now numb as if an army of ants are crawling from his wrists to his knuckles and his legs are shaky so he tries the bed, no, not the bed, it’s not what he needs, instead he finds himself curling on the floor and pulling his knees close to his body, the apartment is empty – _Combeferre…_

Combeferre isn’t here. Combeferre isn’t here. Combeferre…

He senses it coming and he panics even more because he had gained control, he knows he had it and now it’s lost again and he hates that feeling, he absolutely loathes it because he can’t be weak, _he_ _can’t._

The collar of his shirt is choking him, pulled tight around his neck. He brings his shaky hands to feel the clammy skin of his throat but he immediately pulls them away as if stricken by electricity because he can’t stand the feeling of his erratic pulse... He tries to breathe but in vain, his chest is tight and his stomach is tied in a knot, there is not enough air in the small room, the window is widely shut and he gasps for air but there isn’t any, only the ferocious pumping in his head, the wild cacophony of his heartbeat pounding against his meninges, his hands shaking so uncontrollably that he doesn’t feel them anymore _God_ he can’t feel his hands…

If only Combeferre was here…

_A wall, only a wall._

He can feel him breathe through the wall, he can almost feel the warmth of his skin, his body pressed against his own, drunk, his keys, his bed…

Enjolras’ bed is empty, he’s not even sitting on it. He’s on the floor and he can’t breathe because he’s failed and he hates failing, he didn’t achieve this, he didn’t win this, he just hates him –

It was in his eyes. They were blue like the sea and he’s drowning, he’s underwater, he can’t breathe.

Just a wall. Walls, closing in around him and smouldering him under their weight and he tries to breathe, always so much effort yet this once he fails and he fails again. He hears his hand banging on the wall before he feels it, he can’t feel his palm. He bangs again and wheezes but all the air has been vacuumed from the room.

He gives up and shuts his eyes tightly enough to feel the pounding of his blood even beneath his lids. The room goes black and he clenches his fists on his chest but it isn’t helping so instead he tugs on his thighs until his knuckles turn white. His head is spinning, spinning, _no air._

_Just a wall, and nothing more._

Then there’s something on the door, a key. He knows he’s wished for Combeferre yet right now he can’t, the presence of anyone will make it worse, he needs to be alone …

“Apollo?”

It takes a while for him to realize to whom that voice belongs, that sounds which burns through his chest and causes his nails to dig in the clammy flesh of his palms, that voice he’s learnt to hate yet right now he needs it, he needs it so badly.

There are steps or maybe just his heartbeat but then he’s here, he can feel him here. “Enjolras? You alright?”

_No, he’s not alright. Can’t you see he’s suffocating? Can’t you see you’re breathing in the oxygen that’s left?_

“It’s okay. You’re alright, Enjolras, you can do this.” He can sense the other man kneeling before him and he needs him to leave, he’s too close, _too close._ “We’ll do this together, you’re not alone.” That seems to be the exact problem yet Grantaire’s hands reach for his own and gently untangle his fingers from the fabric of his t-shirt, holding them safely in two fists which are steady and warm... “I need you to breathe, okay? Here, breathe for me.”

_He can’t._

_Not enough._

“There is enough air. You’re just hyperventilating. I need you to breathe slowly. Find a pace.” His fingers start kneading in the flesh of Enjolras’ palms and it’s surprisingly helpful, he can actually feel the pressure, blood’s flowing again in his veins yet his chest is still…

“Enjolras, listen to me.” Grantaire brings their fists against his chest, holding them tight. “Hold my hands, squeeze them,” he says and his voice is impeccably soothing, warm and sweet like honey. He kneads his wrists then the back of his fists. “Apply all the pressure on me. There, that’s good. Relax on me.” Enjolras presses tightly on Grantaire’s grip, finding his body obeying to instructions that his blurry mind hasn’t yet managed to process.

“Here, feel my breathing? Follow my rhythm.” It’s comforting and warm. A tiny voice inside of him keeps repeating it’s Grantaire whose chest is rising and falling steadily, whose strong heartbeat Enjolras can feel under his hands, slowly aligning its rhythm with his own. Soon air starts filling Enjolras’ lungs and he finally dares to open his eyes only to meet those blue ones smiling gently at him. He’s exhausted though, his head light and dizzy and his limbs all cramped up.

“Great,” the man says in a soft, hoarse voice. “You did great. You need to relax now though, okay?”

Enjolras doesn’t reply, doesn’t even nod or shake his head. Shame flows burning inside of him as he comes back to his senses, he’s been weak, it’s been Grantaire who found him like that, Grantaire who he called a fuck up only the previous day, Grantaire who hated him, Grantaire…

“Do you want me to give you some space or do you think it’d help if I stayed? You’re shaking…” the man asks carefully.

“Don’t leave,” Enjolras hears himself muttering in a croaked, trembling voice.

“Combeferre gave me the key, he pleaded me to leave you something for you to eat when you’d return, said you haven’t had a proper meal in two days,” it’s as if nothing has happened, no fight, no drunken sleeping in the same bed, and for once Enjolras can only be thankful for the otherwise annoying voice that never seems to cease. He’s glad because now it’s warm and strong and assuring and he doesn’t want Grantaire to stop speaking to him while he wraps his strong arms around him and holds him just for a second but it’s more than enough to take in his scent, today oranges and tobacco and charcoal, and take in the pattern of his breathing, warm against his nape. The contact helps him more than he’d ever thought. “Now I’ll make sure you eat and tuck you in, or something. After all I owe you.”

He owes him. _He owes him._

“You did this…” Enjolras hears his own, dry voice again. “And I was so awful with you yesterday.”

The issue is clearly making Grantaire uncomfortable, as he pulls away (no, please no) and stands up (no, _no)._ “Don’t blame yourself.”

Enjolras makes an attempt to stand up. “I didn’t mean…”

“Relax. You were right.”

He was right. Of course he was right. Anger boils again in Enjolras’ veins. “I said everything because I really do care, you know. You were so shitfaced…”

He opens his mouth to respond but Grantaire holds up a hand. “Not now, okay? I’m really grateful for everything you’ve done, Apollo, but now you go to sleep. You need to take it easy.”

“I don’t need to take it easy, I’m not sick,” Enjolras pouts.

Grantaire raises an eyebrow. “I doubt that you’d take it easy even if you were a victim of the cholera epidemic or something equally macabre. I also doubt you’ve slept at all during the past week.”

He’s steadily regaining his composure and feeling more and more ashamed with every unbiased breath that he drags. “I fell asleep on my books yesterday evening and didn’t finish studying, that’s why I fucked up today,” Enjolras says defensively and he’s more than released that he doesn’t notice any dramatic change in Grantaire’s expression when he talks about his test. “I’ve slept enough.”

A pregnant pause, only their breaths as they both sit cross legged on his bed. “You’re human, Enjolras,” it’s more of a breathless realization than a remainder.

Enjolras doesn’t reply. The sole exclamation fills him with inexplicable warmth. He finds himself fiddling with a thread that has escaped the hem of his red, sweaty t-shirt. He wraps it around his finger until he cuts circulation. “How did you do this so well?” he asks curiously.

“Ugh, it’s the pressure of knowing what this world is about, watching some good friend scream LET ME OUT!” Enjolras raises an eyebrow and Grantaire shrugs his shoulders. “I don’t know, Jehan gets panic attacks sometimes. I had to help him through it. Anyway, what do you want to do?” he asks eventually. “Leave? Stay? You’re not going to sleep so I could pay you some company.” A moment of hesitation. “I know I’ll probably never become your first choice…”

“Take me out.”

Grantaire stops talking, surprise shining in his wide open, blue eyes. “What?”

“Let’s go out,” Enjolras breathes, finally raising his gaze to take the entirety of the man’s new features in, as if he’s never seen him again in his life. “I need a break.”

The artist can only smile.

The city of light has finally settled herself on the decision of spring and, vain as she is, she finds no trouble in understanding the way she blooms under the hot sun and the scents of a partying nature even in the center of the town. The feast of the bees and the butterflies around the blooming trees and the small parterres on the pavements and the squares in infectious and it feels as though the Parisians have almost forgotten their busy schedules for a while and, drunk and mesmerized by the colors and the songs, follow spring into her intoxicating dance.

They don’t speak as they walk between groups students who have just finished their exams, old couples walking their dogs, families with prams and children jumping merrily around their parents and tourists, so many tourists with their wide grins and cameras that give Enjolras a headache, or rather intensify the one he’s just managed to tame. Grantaire can feel the warm sun burning the part of his nape that’s not hidden by wild curls, he can feel it caressing his face and he realizes that he hasn’t felt so alive in so long. He loves Paris, he always had, with an almost hysterical passion. Having grown up at Marseille, he has inevitably connected every distant, almost fairytale-like image of the beautiful provincial city with his rather eventful childhood and his arrival at the capital of the Hexagon during his teenage years indicated the beginning of a completely new life that, with the idealistic standards of his young age and the naïve dreams he’d had corrupted long ago, that the world _could_ change and art was _enough_ for that to happen, everything had seemed extraordinarily cathartic compared to everything he’d left behind. It didn’t take long to turn against himself and everything his life consisted of, to try and to give up several times and to end up hating the world around him, but Paris he would never hate. Paris with its dark days and its darker nights, its decadent face of poverty and pain, Paris that kept disappointing him as much as his own self did, that would always be his shore, which he knew better than he knew the lines on his own palm. And Paris in spring, well _that_ was probably the only thing that could make him feel naïve and insanely optimistic, maybe just for a few minutes, even though autumn and its clarity was what truly spoke to him.

And now they’re walking side to side, not speaking at all and Grantaire is _not_ optimistic about anything, he _can’t_ be because he’s next to the man he’s loved the most in his whole life and who took care of him while he was drunk and disgusting and then spoke an equally disgusting truth in front of his very eyes and Grantaire hated himself more and more with every minute that passed because he was not worthy of walking next to him, not at all. It is the same man who’s making him lose his breath and causes his heart to try and crack his ribcage open in order to burst in an insane rage of utmost devotion and fall at his feet – or probably something less pathetic and gross because look he’s wearing those cute white tennis shoes and it would be a pity to fill them with blood and his ankles are bare and white and so _elegant_ and oh _God_ is he wearing _leggings_? How in the name of Zeus had he not realized all this time that Enjolras is confidently clad in a pair of navy leggings that hug his thighs and his loose thin red sweater falls so gracefully on his shoulders and everyone who passes by stares in a way that makes Grantaire want to punch them all in the throat –

_fucking concentrate._

Yes, the thing is that Grantaire is entirely too fucked up for his own good, and Enjolras seems to have forgotten the drunk’s embarrassing behavior a couple of days ago, he seems even grateful as if Grantaire did anything more than simply holding him through a panic attack because _of course_ this perfect genius of a man would eventually work himself to death and Grantaire’s heart breaks again and again because all he wants is to hold him and care for him and make sure that he’s always safe and happy, yet Enjolras looks so calm now, deeply breathing in the spring light breeze and their shoulders occasionally brush and Grantaire has to take special care not to explode or scream – which he already does. Internally.

Or at least he hopes so.

“So, what do we do?” Enjolras pulls him out of his thoughts as they metro passes from the strange, submarine station of Arts and Métiers.

Grantaire is way too unprepared for such a question so he just shrugs his shoulders. “What are you planning?”

Enjolras raises an eyebrow. “I’m not planning anything. I’m asking you what you want us to do.”

“For a revolutionary you’re very indecisive,” Grantaire smirks.

Enjolras blushes and it’s so adorable Grantaire wants to punch his rosy face. “Well everyone keeps saying how well you know Paris and I thought you’d have some idea.” A pause where he bites his bottom red lip – _punch him, punch him…_ “And it’s not like hanging out is really my thing so…”

“Yeah, having a life hardly suits you at all, I can tell,” Grantaire says sarcastically as he briefly thinks of their life choices. “What about doing some museums? You know, education and all?”

Enjolras frowns like a petulant child and he says the last thing Grantaire had ever expected to hear. “I don’t really like museums.”

“You of all people? The nerd extraordinaire? I’d thought you’d piss yourself at the suggestion!” _Or maybe just, you know, kiss me. And then hold me as I die._

“I don’t know. We always went with Combeferre and he spent hours inspecting a fossil behind a show case while books can give you much better commentary on everything, and all those tourists with the sparkly Eiffel tower t-shirts that go and gape and take photos of all the popular, overrated pieces while there are much more important spots of culture in this historical city.

“How can you talk of overrated when you know nothing of art, that’s so pretentious!”

“Well I never _claimed_ that –”

Grantaire holds up a hand. “So, not the Louvre then.”

“Not the Louvre.”

“Not Castor and Pollux.”

“Nah.”

"Not the precious Rembrandts."

"Don't think so."

“Well, that’s your loss.” Grantaire thinks for a while, then a smug smile slowly spreads on his face. “I think I have in mind a place that can change your mind.”

The Musée Carnavalet doesn't change Enjolras’ mind. The history of Paris is exactly what can stir his interest, though he finds some important issues in the way and point of view it is presented. Robespierre's portrait does something for him, but the overall visit does not really help avoiding The Rant.

“Okay,” he says, defeated. "Now show me some art.”

Grantaire almost chokes on his own breath. “Repeat yourself, if you don't mind?”

“It’s only right,” Enjolras explains patiently, as if Grantaire is a toddler. “You obviously did an effort to make my day pleasant today and I have to admit that your help has been... remarkable.” That’s it. Grantaire is going to pass out. Goodbye, world. “Now I want you to show me what interests _you_.”

“Égalité and stuff, right?” Grantaire asks hoarsely.

“You could call it that,” Enjolras smiles lightly, and Grantaire has surely forgotten how to breathe because he’s going to the Orsay.

With Enjolras.

He’ll need some time to process this.

But Enjolras is already looking impressed by the old railway station and the Great Clock that stands majestically in the middle, even though he tries hard to disguise his interest and can’t help but scowl at the tourists. Grantaire doesn’t roll his eyes though, because they’re in the middle of the impressionists and the symbolists and Rodin, Lautrec’s dark and vivid dancing that makes the blood pump in his veins in another, imaginary Paris, Gaugin and his exotic, lively colors that always managed to light a fire in the grey of Grantaire’s soul, Van Gogh and the dizzy twirling in his head in the rhythm of the travelling stars in a crazy drunken sky, Enjolras acts like he doesn’t really see the point in it all yet the blonde can barely hide his awe and admiration at everything Grantaire explains in pure ecstasy, the way he sneaks glances at the artist while he walks and stops before the masterpieces, holding his breath, the glint of excitement in his gaze, seeing him stirred by passion for the very first time and Enjolras, is completely mesmerized by that new, different Grantaire that does funny things to his heart and spreads a warmth into his chest, so he follows just a step behind, merely drugged by the precious devotion in those icy blue eyes.

“...look at Dancing at the Moulin de la Galette. Don’t you feel that Renoir is throwing the sun straight through your fucking window?”

“Well, the impressionists show the life of the bourgeoisie,” mutters Enjolras, thoroughly unimpressed.

“For fuck’s sake, just enjoy the fucking masterpieces Apollo!”

In the end, it's what was intended to be a quick visit at the Pompidou centre that does it. His eyes are glowing ferociously at the revolutionary art Grantaire expected to see him mock, not that he fully understands it  _artistically,_ but apparently it is modern art that stirs something into Enjolras. So Grantaire speaks, and explains, and Enjolras hangs upon his lips, and Grantaire melts...

_melts._

 

*

“You have the honest to God Marseilleise for your ringtone. Seriously.”

Enjolras ignores Grantaire’s annoying snort and answers his phone.

“Where art thou, O Gorgeousest one?”

“Courfeyrac. We’re at the Musée de l’Orangérie.”

A pause. “We? Who we?”

Another pause. “Grantaire and I.”

A nine and a half months pregnant pause. “Do you actually mean to say you are with Grantaire?”

“Pretty much yeah.”

“And have you been looking at _art_?”

“I suppose so, though I somehow fail to understand the importance of all those water lilies…”

“Hey! You _do_ understand talking like that about Monet is blasphemy!”

“Well fucking _thank_ you!” Grantaire. That’s Grantaire.

“Yeah okay now that I know you’re both alive and I’m really proud you’ve not slit each other’s throat kids, don’t get me wrong, listen here. We were at the sewers and The Disney’s joined us but Marius got claustrophobic and on top of it all he saw the stuffed rats and freaked the fuck out so now we’re at the fucking Luxembourg and you’re joining us because you are literally here as well.”

A sigh. “Courf you know how I feel about…”

“The fuck I care exams are over Bahorel and Bossuet are here, Combeferre is here Joly and Eponine are joining us therefore you’re joining us.”

“Can't you at least come to the Tuileries? We're literally…”

“The Medici fountain, twenty minutes from now!” They hear Jehan shouting from the background, sounding entirely too merry. There is a last pause before Courfeyrac says in his most serious voice. “Bring ice cream.”

They reluctantly abandon the gardens they're already at, and eventually find themselves at what they know is Jehan's favorite spot, the fountain with the beautiful plant ribbons and the divine sculpture of Polyphemus scaring Acis and Galatea. Their friends have all occupied spots a few metres away, on the grass instead of the chairs around the lake (apart from Bahorel who is feeding the ducks, much to Combeferre's annoyance), and look rather shocked to see them together, particularly pleased that Enjolras and Grantaire have come bearing not only ice cream, but also Marius who went to fetch the ice cream in first place almost an hour ago and got himself lost by giving directions to a group of Turkish tourists. In their language.

They find their way to a free, sunny spot the shade of which is already occupied by Combeferre, completely calm and unaffected by the unexpected heat, always in long sleeve button ups even when Courfeyrac has rolled his chinos into capris and Jehan has comfortably changed in the huge gym lycra lime green shorts that Bahorel was carrying with him. Apart from their bespectacled Guide they’re all in short sleeves, apart from Bahorel who’s apparently shirtless and Courfeyrac looks on the verge of following his example. The bespectacled medical student raises his glance and smiles fondly at the appearance of his best friend and the oddest company he could see on his side, hardly containing himself from showing his surprise and approval. They all get down to the ice cream while Feuilly explains Marius about the clocks he fixes (in Polish) and Cosette, clad in the most beautiful shirt with Botticelli’s Venus printed on it, rests her head on her boyfriend’s lap, sewing a skirt for Eponine, which makes the sick feeling in the latter’s stomach even worse as she sits a bit further from the others, watching the man she loves kissing another woman. Everyone rolls their eyes and paying the last doses of their bets at Joly who’s literally sucking Bossuet’s face but sitting on his jacket because the lawn of the gardens may contain jiggers. Musichetta finishes her shift at the café in a couple of hours – when, inevitably Grantaire will have to go – and the two of them are picking her up to go to the Pagode theatre which makes Jehan insanely jealous (“Oh the _tea…_ ”). Bahorel dives in the ice cream buckets and soon everyone is punching and kicking everyone else out of the way just to earn their honest sharing. In less than five minutes the ice cream has vanished (Courfeyrac is sure that Combeferre the traitor has confiscated the whole chocolate bucket and is hiding it behind his serious façade but he can’t prove it with no further evidence other than his smug smile).

Grantaire stares at his friends. His heart sinks a bit at the sight of Eponine, but soon she pulls herself out of her gloom and sits cross-legged behind Jehan, starting to braid his gorgeous auburn locks with flowers. He, on the other side, looks absolutely ecstatic and Grantaire can only feel grateful for Courfeyrac, though he already has a stock of several techniques of torture in case that the smiling asshole who looks like he’s jumped out of a Ralph Lauren advertisement together with the rosy cheeks and the dimples and the curls and that ridiculous bowtie decides to hurt Jehan in any way.

“What are you drawing?” he hears his best friend’s deep voice, feeling his sweet breath of gardenias brushing on his ear. He tilts his head to stare in those iridescent brown eyes smiling dreamily behind the fair eyelashes.

Grantaire simply shifts his sketchbook so that Jehan can have a look at his own self drawn in Art Nouveau style, hyacinths being the main flower in the composition, a complex of curves ornamenting his Renaissance braid combination and he looks stunning in purple and blue, in the way one would take him for Persephone if it weren’t for his name written in the Metropolitain font.

“It truly is so beautiful,” Jehan breathes on his neck, wrapping his arms around his waist and Grantaire can literally feel the warmth radiating from the man’s slender figure. “Can I see more?”

Grantaire holds his breath for a while. He’s never hidden his drawings from Jehan, never even dreamt of it. Now, however, it’s so insanely personal, so vile to share, and he instinctively clutches the sketchbook to his chest until he spots the slightly hurt surprise in Jehan’s glance.

“Don’t you dare talk of how pathetic it is,” he hisses, looking around with paranoia to make sure no one else is staring.

Jehan looks downright offended and he really doesn’t want to cross that path, so he simply lowers his textbook with the page turned.

It’s the Art Nouveau phase so naturally that’s the case once again. No one must see. Jehan’s mouth is sealed but his eyes are wide open in mute admiration as if he’s seeing Mucha himself standing in front of him. “Oh God, Grantaire,” he breathes,” and that’s all he can repeat again and again. “It’s… oh God…”

“Right, ok,” Grantaire immediately regrets showing him and shuts his sketchbook, merely embarrassed.

“Don’t ever let this piece of art get lost,” Jehan says seriously, grabbing Grantaire’s wrist and Grantaire knows that he means _don’t you dare rip it and throw it in the garbage because I’ll end you._

Just then a set of violent kitten sneezes causes half of them to jump up and almost hit their heads in branches and they all turn to face a red-eyed Enjolras, looking more miserable than he has all morning. Grantaire completely freaks about and doesn’t even have time to scream of the adorableness of that ridiculous punk revolutionary nerd with the kitten sneeze but it’s Combeferre who immediately comes to his friend’s aid, producing a box of antihistamines out of his pocket with an almost bored expression, and Courfeyrac hands him a bottle of water and a packet of tissues just as fast which the blonde accepts gratefully before sneezing again.

“Spring allergies?” asks Joly sympathetically. “They’ve…”

“They’ve got you too, baby, we know,” hums Bossuet affectionately and ruffles Joly’s dark hair.

“You know, it’s remarkable how you two have managed to jump from the oblivious bickering married couple stage to full cavity mode in less than three days’ time,” Feuilly mutters thoughtfully, taking a drag from his cigarette, briefly raising his eyes from Marius’ book.

“What can I say,” sighs Bossuet dramatically as Joly presses a nauseating kiss on his bald head. “It’s true love.”

“You didn’t tell me anything all day,” Grantaire returns to Enjolras, looking mildly concerned.

“It’s gotten worse because we’re at the park,” Enjolras shrugs his shoulder in a nasal voice. His eyes fall at Joly’s concerned face and he holds up a hand. “It’s okay. I’m okay, I’m used to it.”

Apparently it’s only Combeferre’s reassuring glance that can soothe Joly. Enjolras lays his head on Combeferre’s lap and soon Courfeyrac has declared a war claiming back Combeferre’s stolen ice cream – the property of which the other is defending with political debate worthy arguments that have to do with its melting state and a few altered points of The Capital. Grantaire can’t help but look at them and feel a pang of warmth mixed with discomfort: the three of them are platonically married and will forever be, outdoing the levels of domesticity Joly and Bossuet might ever gain if they eventually get their shit together and stop acting like dreamy horny teenagers. He’s glad that Enjolras has them, he can’t be anything but that. So he just sits there in the sun and stares at them – at _him –_ for what feels like forever, until he feels Enjolras blowing his nose very near him.

“What are you drawing?” he asks in a genuinely interested voice.

Grantaire rushes to hide his sketchbook. “Just… stuff.”

Enjolras doesn’t press. In all honesty, he doesn’t do much anyway. He lies back against a tree, the sleeves of his red sweater rolled up to his elbows and Grantaire wants to draw all of him, the graceful curves of his wrists, the blue veins that cross them, his long, elegant fingers… The whole thing is too much for him to bear, too much not to scream in need and artistic orgasm that gets him so rarely nowadays yet keeps pounding through his entire being, he needs this in any way he can have it yet he can have neither, he will never have Enjolras and he will never have the talent to portray such godly perfection.

It’s a beautiful afternoon, the sun shining too brightly yet not warmly enough for it to be uncomfortable. There are flowers blooming all around in the Luxembourg garden and Enjolras can easily admit that he hasn’t let himself feel so calm and relaxed, _happy,_ even, in the way Courfeyrac would love to torture him until he’d admit. The sole fact that Combeferre and Courfeyrac are there (even if the latter is rather distracted by a certain poet), taking the day off with him, would be more than enough for him to forget about his allergies and his failed exam, his parents and his professor, even about the anxiety that the upcoming protest and all the related problems are triggering. Yet it’s not only that, he knows it’s not. All of his friends are here, chatting and chanting and laughing merrily at ridiculous jokes (half of which consist of the nature of his sneezes, don’t think he hasn’t figured that out already), and there’s nowhere else it’d feel more _enough,_ to be around those passionate people, dreaming of changing the world…

He knows that’s not all of them. He knows he can’t fool himself. Grantaire is there, sitting with Jehan’s feet on his lap and sharing something with him that Enjolras will inevitably never be a part of, Grantaire who will get drunk and worry him to his death, Grantaire who will be there just to mock them, Grantaire who will never believe. And yet something has softened inside him for the cynical artist and he can hardly prevent himself from staring at him from a distance, wondering how it would feel to make him believe, to make him see what is important, wondering if grabbing his hand and holding it safely, warmly into his own would help at all…

And then Enjolras is dying, he’s literally already _dead_ because it’s hot, it’s such a hot afternoon and Grantaire is unzipping his olive green hoodie and taking it off in what seems like slow motion and he lets it pool on the grass before bundling it up to stay with a grey fitted t-shirt but his biceps oh God his _biceps…_

It’s not only that the t-shirt is sticking on all the wrong places, no. Enjolras shouldn’t have a problem with that. At least that’s what makes sense to him. No, it’s the colors on Grantaire’s tattoo sleeves hugging his arms, the complex branches and grape vines and the sea and _fuckfuckfuck_ why didn’t anyone let him know, why didn’t anyone _warn_ him don’t they fucking care for his…

“…Thiiiis is ground controoool to maaajor Tom,” chants Courfeyrac oh so dramatically which means that Courfeyrac has already sung half of the Space Oddity and Enjolras didn’t even notice but how the hell _could_ he when this is happening, how?

He quickly turns to face Courfeyrac and pretend as much as he can that everything’s alright, everything’s okay, his heart isn’t trying to bomb itself out of his body and thank Robespierre his sweater is already red, nope, not at all.

He notices that some of their friends didn’t know about those tattoo sleeves though, as Marius, Cosette and Combeferre are really fucking fascinated (of course Combeferre is fascinated but that’s not an issue he’s willing to discuss right now) but Courfeyrac looks amused for some reason and Enjolras feels so frustrated because how dare Courfeyrac look so calm and amused and what’s wrong with him and his reaction?

“So,” he hears Grantaire addressing him and oh God what if he won’t be able to form an answer what why – “should I expect you to our music thing on Friday or will you be too busy overthrowing the state?”

Fortunately enough Enjolras’ voice does come out and the fact that it resembles a croak can easily be disguised as a symptom of his blooming allergy. “Am I invited?” he asks, immediately regretting it when he realizes how stupid it sounds.

Grantaire looks shell shocked, to say the least. “What do you mean are you invited?” his own voice comes out a little too distorted.

“You never told me anything… You just… I thought –” there is a pause where Enjolras bites his tongue.

“You thought what, Apollo?” presses Grantaire.

“I thought you hated me,” Enjolras eventually half-snaps, having regained his lost confidence because what the hell?

“Wait, what –” Grantaire is staring at him with a completely blank expression, looking as if that was the last answer he ever expected to receive.

“You always laugh at me. I mean it makes you fucking ecstatic, it must be your favorite hobby. And then you ridicule my convictions and you try to ruin everything I do and I honestly don’t know what I’ve done wrong because I rarely ever have people hating me, at least decent people and those who aren’t cops or possibly my father and his colleagues and…”

“Enjolras,” breathes Grantaire ever so softly, almost mesmerized, in a voice so different than it has been ever before, gentle and sweet like the breeze blowing in their hair and for a moment it’s as if everything else is muted but Grantaire’s voice and all the colors of the gardens. “I don’t hate you.”

Enjolras honestly doesn’t know what to reply to that statement, so he simply stays silent and insanely embarrassed of himself for blurting out thoughtless things like these.

“And I know we’re not the fucking Smiths but it would mean a lot if you came to hear us on Friday. I mean, at least do it for Feuilly and Bahorel.”

“I will,” Enjolras exhales. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

And he can swear that Grantaire’s face lights up, and the whole park forgets to breathe for a while.

*

They slowly lower their heads on the grass, choosing to steer clear of any shadow that will make the features of the other’s face glow any less than the sun itself wants them to. The tips of Jehan’s curvy eyelashes look like the last breath of a flame, and Courfeyrac’s eyes right now would probably pale the shine of all the emeralds. Their heads touch the ground and the carnations, so many carnations, and they hold their breaths as Courfeyrac stretches a confident finger to trace it on the lily white skin of the poet’s arm, his touch light as a feather, then another, feeling him shudder under his touch every now and then. He wants to hold Jehan forever, to wrap his arms around him and cover him in blood red tulips as their bare feet make love to the tall hyacinths, so many hyacinths…

Jehan is writing on him and that’s the most important thing that will ever happen to Courfeyrac. Jehan is writing with a teal ballpen that pulls on the skin of his nape, holding his dark chocolate curls away from it, insufferably tickling him and causing him to screech or making his breath to catch on his throat and his whole body to tingle with anticipation because he’ll never get to see what Jehan is writing so carefully, fingers resting decidedly on the back of his head, he’ll never get to see why Jehan is smiling.

Courfeyrac will never read it, but he can feel every word as it falls like a prayer from Jehan’s parted lips before he leans closer to press them, burning on the skin of Courfeyrac’s neck.

_Until I even believe that you own the universe_

Their breathing falls heavy as Courfeyrac slowly turns his head and nothing happens _happy flowers from the mountains…_ just Courfeyrac’s head laid on Jehan’s legs _and rustic baskets of kisses_ a sunkissed, freckled smile kissing every sensitive hollow of his skin without even touching him, a breath _I want to do with you_ and then their fingers slowly come to entwine.

_what spring does with the cherry trees_

*

He’d always thought he’d kept control of that stuff. Few words, sharp opinions, things tidily organized in boxes while at the same time he had always taken pride in keeping the most open mind possible for everything, from matters of religion after going through his embarrassing smug atheist phase in his teenage years, to the despise of scientific determination and his vast interest for everything out of the ordinary. He knows he might be a bit harsher than needed when he’s trying to explain Marius his political anachronisms yet he’s acknowledged this and is always making a considerable effort to control his temper and be logical and, most importantly, to always show to all of his friends, in his very own reversed way, how much he truly cares for them and values their opinions and everything they can all merit from them. Long story short, heart never aside, but head should go before it.

And that was the reason why his friends would crawl to him and ask for advice which he’d always patiently give, that was why he had assumed he had been able to sort out the others’ problems as well as his own, his relationships, his needs and weaknesses. And now everything’s upside down because he feels small, not an observer, an analyzer, but a small piece of inspection of he knows not whom, a moth drawn to the lamp because she’s brighter than the sun, his logic can hardly prevail upon the tight clenching in his chest as he watches her watch Marius and aches for her but aches for himself even more, for the confusion that messes with the order of things in his head, for the entirely too unpleasant sentiment of feeling hostile against a friend he otherwise honestly admires and values just because he’s in the place he’d so selfishly like to occupy himself and, most of all, for the fact that he knows how she feels and he can’t talk to her about it, he can talk to no one, he can’t make her feel better and no one can make him either.

It’s the simplicity in which she outshines everyone that’s around her without pulling any effort at all, sitting most ungracefully with her slumped shoulders in that massive white t-shirt, the slow rise and fall of her breasts just barely visible under the wrinkles of the fabric, achieving nothing more but to make him feel alive yet alive only with her, her knees pulled close to her chest in those ancient, baggy Levi’s 501 that sit just so easily on her waist and hug her hips so comfortably, almost protecting her from the overall discomfort of staring at Cosette who’s sewing her a skirt which is so thoughtful and nice considering how genuinely kind and caring Cosette is, not to mention an extremely talented designer. However Combeferre hates the fact that he can understand the look in Eponine’s face which shouts ‘I didn’t even ask for it, I don’t want to feel grateful, please’, because he’s in the awkward position of repeating to himself that he never asked of Marius to be so kind to him and offer to help him with his Latin, or to look so overwhelmingly grateful when Combeferre drove him home after that night at the Corinthe, or…

But for the timebeing he doesn’t care, he _can’t_ because she’s already acquired a tan that reminds him of sand and endless beaches, her messy hair so dark and inviting his fingers to run gently through it and untangle it, to do everything that can make her life easier, her day even a tiny bit happier than it already is. She is beautiful and he never asked _her_ to be so simply and truly beautiful and now he hates himself for ever daring to think that she’s beautiful for _him_ or for anyone else but for herself and only herself, and now he hates himself because everything that’s in his mind today is a terrible, frustrating contradiction with himself.

He watches her watch Marius and on the next moment, he’s watching her watching him, her dark, opaque eyes meeting with his own and he tries to read her but she’s always unreadable, mystery mixed with a little bit of weariness and he hates not being able to read something, to read _her._

Sometimes she catches herself watching him. Watching him discuss hot air balloons with Feuilly and nanotechnology with Joly, the rates of the market with Bahorel and butterflies with Cosette, and she drops her sewing and shows him her book with all the different species because she even has to know that, doesn’t she?

But yes, she's watching him. Sometimes. When she thinks he doesn’t see. _Hopes_ he doesn’t see. She watches him being odd and a genius, and sometimes fucking pretentious. She watches him in those ridiculous long, button sleeves in the unbearable inferno of the spring weather – or maybe it’s just that she prefers the rain and thinks she’ll die when the temperature rises more than her comfort zone, therefore Combeferre and his sleeves seem pretty insane to her right now. Also pretentious.

But then her gaze phases out at the direction of Marius who’s kissing the ice cream off Cosette’s chin, their giggles and sweet nothings sounding so distant, almost false. Before she’s able to notice him Combeferre is somehow next to her, whispering in her ear.

“Want to go?”

“Yes please,” she finds herself desperately clinging on him and the possibility of escaping without giving it a second thought, almost jumping to her feet and following his steps that lead her behind the trees that make their friends look smaller and smaller, she catches Grantaire’s concerned eye questioning her but right now she needs this and she needs it simply as that, without questions or indications of understanding, she just needs to walk.

“Let’s run,” she says when they’re out of reach and Combeferre stares at her, almost stunned.

“What?”

“I want to run.”

“What? Here?”

“Well we could run up the fucking Eiffel tower if that suits you better.”

“I can’t,” he mutters incredulously, “they’ll think I’m chasing you or something.”

“Wow I didn’t expect such sexism from you,” she whistles. “What if they think I’m the predator chasing _you_?”

“Well they won’t,” replies Combeferre with a small smile, stopping to walk and turning to stare at her. “Because I simply haven’t run since second grade and I’ll inevitably be the one left behind.”

“You fucking nerd,” she punches his shoulder and starts running in the streak of the park empty of visitors, partly because she doesn’t want him to see her smile.

She doesn’t truly expect him to follow her, all she knows is that it’s freeing, the arrhythmic, erratic thumping of her feet as they touch the ground, the control she has over her labored breath, the soft breeze chasing her to play with her cheeks… The whole thing is almost equal to that time when she punched Parnasse on the nose and almost gave him an apoplexy because he was convinced he was going to need a nose job so he mugged a man in advance to pay for it. Only when she stops with a few long strides she can see him advancing before her and stop, panting, and she can only laugh forever. Unexpectedly enough he joins her too and it’s enough, it’s more than enough because she doesn’t remember ever hearing him laugh like that and it’s a sound she could more than easily get used to, deep and clear and sneakily infectious.

“Come on, I’m buying you some well-deserved healthy juice,” she says as they find themselves out of the gardens, so they drag themselves to the small café across the street and sit on the tables in the pavement. It all happens quickly enough, without arranging anything, they’re just sitting there and it’s comfortable and easy. She honestly doesn’t know how they’ll talk, what they’ll talk about, she knows it’s a really bad idea and she won’t understand shit but in less than five minutes they’re somehow sorting their friends in Hogwarts houses and she’s laughing, she’s honest to God laughing about his imitation of Bahorel and the Sorting Hat that her ribs ache and it’s wrong, he’s Combeferre, she’s learnt to sort him in that type of guys but then he proves her wrong, because that’s just what happens in every occasion isn’t it?

She doesn’t forget about Marius but yes, she’s feeling better even though a masochistic part of herself makes her guilty for ignoring her unrequited devotion and go on just for a while. It’s almost different than Grantaire who doesn’t try to make her change her mind, he just tries to make her forget while Combeferre makes no effort whatsoever; neither straight acknowledging nor denying, his words soothing like chocolate and a warm water on sore muscles after a hard day or even a hot chocolate shower, she doesn’t fucking know.

“Thank you for what you do for Gavroche,” she eventually says, taking him a bit by surprise.

He frowns slightly. “Don’t be ridiculous. He’s a very smart kid.”

A light smile appears on her face. “I know.” Then a strange thing jumps in his chest. It’s ugly and she wants it to go away before it goes to her mouth and she’s already speaking it out loud. “I saw you with Cosette earlier,” she murmurs.

He nods. “She has an extensive knowledge of insects.”

“Well she _does_ study ecology,” she half scowls before being able to contain herself. “You looked like you were having fun. She’s charming isn’t she?”

“Yes, quite. I’m having more fun now though, you know,” he leans closer, never touching her, never making her feel uncomfortable and never rolling his fucking sleeves.

She’s about to question the abruptness of his confession and the way it caused something to jump in the middle her chest. She’s about to question the truth in his words and the reason that she cares.

Instead she does nothing of that sort. She just melts and melts involuntarily into his chocolate eyes and always catches herself before she drowns but then she’s melting again.

For once Eponine just shuts her mouth and sips her fucking juice.


	8. See the love there that's sleeping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It burns his throat in a sickly sweet way and he finds himself sipping more and sipping quickly, as if he’s begging everything to go pink and hazy like his drink and not blue and fierce because he can’t look anymore, the merely orgasmic pulling of Grantaire’s expression as he stands in his sinfully tight leather pants, his knees slowly moving on the stage like _sex_ , hands making love – no, _fucking_ – with the guitar that suddenly feels like the extension of his body and Enjolras honestly doesn’t know how he’s ever going to lay his eyes on him again without it feeling odd, without Grantaire’s perfect hands chasing the chords in a frantic battle for domination against the rest of the world.
> 
>  
> 
> _Or the one with all the music and the tattoo apocalypse, where everyone is reconsidering their life choices._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No time for notes. No time for double checking. This is all I've got and I know I'm terribly late again but there's a lot of shit to deal with. Sorry for the ridiculous amount of music references, I know it's cheesy but the last scene of this chapter was what moved me to actually begin this story. Thank you so much for taking the time to read this!  
> Opinions and constructive criticism are always more than welcome!

The brighter the sun shines, the stronger their habit grows. Courfeyrac knows Jehan’s schedule at the bookshop by heart and, when he knows that the younger man will be at home, he finds all kinds of excuses to spend time with him, take him out until his shift begins, go to the café of Cosette’s dad to keep some company to working Grantaire and Musichetta or simply cycling around Paris, walking at gardens and always making the necessary stops at bookshops and flower shops, anything that will light Jehan’s beautiful face up, Courfeyrac thinks almost selfishly.

Jehan doesn’t expect him to show up that morning, willing to stay inside instead. Courfeyrac shows up at the doorway just to make his heart skip a beat, smiling brightly in his braces and matching polka dot bowtie. He’s adorable and Jehan wants to wrap his arms around him and keep him in a box or in a giant bubble, all for his own, but he knows that’s wrong and he tries to shove every such thought away, failing miserably. Courfeyrac looks way too excited, even more than he usually does. There’s some sort of an old, olive green suitcase in his one hand and, without a word, he places it on Jehan’s desk and gives a flick at the buttons that throw the cap open.

Jehan’s heart catches at his throat because _is this a typewriter?_ Yes, it is a typewriter, the most gorgeous one he’s ever seen, night blue and shiny, worn at the corners and fairly used and Jehan can hardly breathe as his shaky fingers trace gently over the cold, metal keys.

“This is for you,” Courfeyrac beams proudly.

“What – how?” mumbles Jehan, turning scarlet red because such a gift he cannot possibly accept, no matter what.

“My mum cleaned up the basement and found this. She told me ‘I’m going to throw this away unless that poet friend of yours wants it.’”

“I’m not a poet, Courf,” blushes Jehan. Is he a poet? Is he a _friend_? Is friends what they are? The thought causes a tight pang in his chest.

“Well, you write poetry, don’t you?” Courfeyrac shrugs his shoulders, before smiling softly, his hands resting on Jehan’s forearm, causing him to flinch slightly. “Poetry which I’d love to read someday.”

“Someday…” murmurs Jehan, gently stroking the typewriter. “You know,” he raises his head looking as if he’s taken an important decision concerning his life, “I have a slam poetry reading on Sunday. Of course you don’t have to do this, but you’ve told me repeatedly that you wanted to read my stuff and I thought…”

“Can I come?” Courfeyrac asks breathlessly.

“Well, Grantaire and Éponine have come a few times before…”

“Thank you!” The man’s face lights up and so does Jehan’s in an unexpected way, only to be shadowed again by guilt. “I’d really love that!”

“I can’t have the typewriter, Courf,” he mumbles under his breath.

“I want you to have it. Sophia wants you to have it.”

The smaller man raises his warm, brown eyes to gratefully stare at Courfeyrac. “Which mum is Sophia?”

“She's my Spanish mom," Courfeyrac chuckles affectionately. "She's the one who drives the car and makes dinner. The one who taught me history and taught me to sing and dealt with Enjolras’ parents when we moved to our place.”

“And what about your other mother?”

“Oh Anne-Marie is an actress. She’s the one who always bought me more books and clothes and spoiled me behind Sophia's back. She has fiery red hair and she taught me to dance and make quick lunch and we had our own code language.”

Jehan can’t hold back the smile tugging on his lips anymore. “I really want to meet them, you know.”

“They want to meet you too, flower.”

 _He’s talked to them about me_ , is the only thing that Jehan can only think of and he finds himself unable to believe it, unable to identify the warm feeling that spreads in his chest. “What did you call me?” he hears himself asking, his heart starting to race in his chest, not really knowing how he feels about that.

“Sorry, it seemed pretty suitable,” Courfeyrac rushes to shrug his shoulders, and Jehan feels sorry for the poor man who’s probably heard several threats from their friends for all the unspeakable things that happen when an ignorant, unfortunate guy treats Jean Prouvaire as sweet and fragile. He knows, however, that this is not the case. It’s another thing they share, a thing they understand. Whimsical, almost magic itself.

“I don’t know how to thank you,” breathes Jehan, throwing his arms around Courfeyrac’s shoulders, deeply inhaling in his rich perfume. “Actually, I think I do,” he pulls away, almost breathless, and that’s how they find themselves in the kitchen, before the pots of lavenders and daisies on the window ledge, Courfeyrac still in his bowtie and Jehan in his huge pastel pyjama pants and a t-shirt, his braided hair held into a bun with several pencils, both covered in dough which they taste with their fingers and tongues excitedly.

The sun is peering through the open window, bathing them in the morning light, causing Courfeyrac’s skin to glow a rich shade and Jehan’s hair to glimmer like sunflowers. There are two huge mugs of odd herbal tea on the table (Courfeyrac pretends to like his own) but they’ve forgotten about them and they’ve probably already gone cold. They pour the chocolate and the flour in the bowl and Jehan cuts the strawberries and sneaks one or two in his mouth which is now painted a sweet red. Jehan has an impulse to taste Courfeyrac, to taste all of him, to taste the vanilla from his fingers as he shuffles the mix, slowly one by one, and the sugar from his nose. Instead his finger reaches for the chocolate on his cheek and their sweet breaths mingle as he brings it to his lips.

*

The small bar at rue de l’Odéon is dimly lit and full with smoke, breathing a certain air of decadence. Enjolras has to admit he’s feeling quite out of his depth. Hanging out in such place had hardly ever been his equivalent of fun even though he’d occasionally do his friends’ favor and join them just because seeing them happy meant a lot to him. He can’t remember the last time he bothered for the way he looked or was dressed, all he knows is that tonight something about his embarrassing rebellious teenage phase (that Courfeyrac swears has never quite finished) is making him feel more comfortable than he’d like to admit. He was so glad that his red spiked leather jacket fitted him (maybe a bit tighter on his chest and shoulders) and he hadn’t worn these tight ripped jeans in what seems like ages.

There is a small stage in the center of the room, lit by blue and silver projectors that flash on and off with every strum of the electric guitar and every beat of the drums that pounds through his whole body in a reviving manner. He can’t remember ever allowing himself to succumb to the music and the lights and the smoke and be wrapped by the whole atmosphere, to feel dizzy and free in so peculiar a manner. Small, independent bands appear after the others and play their own new songs or interpret the classics, promoting themselves and at the same time raising funds for numerous charity organizations, including the animal shelter where Feuilly and Cosette volunteer. His friends order drinks before he’s even managed to throw a look around and he finds himself declining Joly and Bossuet’s offers for shots with slightly increased force than he’d intended.

They occupy two stools that have a relatively good view of the stage and at least the only insufferable smoke they’ll inhale will be that of their own group’s. The lights flash rhythmically before his eyes and his pulse picks up wildly every time a band gets off the stage to be replaced by another, followed by the delirious applause of the crowd, but it’s never their friends, it’s just that girl with the shaved purple hair or that lanky dude with the tattooed scalp. There’s something captivating in the whole atmosphere though, something rhythmically pounding through him that he can’t quite identify, a liberating energy that fills him cell to cell as he sees the people he cares the most in the world having fun, laughing and dancing their hearts out. Soon enough most of them have already managed to get at least obviously drunk, even Combeferre, the only one left back on the table, his eyes glinting dangerously as he eyes Éponine who’s eyeing Marius and Cosette (today both in matching black outfits which is neither unusual nor least awkward than the other times for Marius, whereas even Enjolras can tell that Cosette looks quite eye catching in her ingeniously fitted pencil dress and fierce black eyeliner).

The first excitement starts fading away after the first alternative rock repetitions and he props his chin on his fist, watching his friends instead. He has to admit that they’re quite a sight, Bossuet rocking an imaginary guitar with considerable passion until Musichetta grabs it and breaks it on his bald head, which makes Joly (wrapped like a burrito in her mirror-embroidered shawl) snigger uncontrollably and Bossuet mocking offence until he pulls Musichetta against a dark corner and breathes sinful things against her lips, and Joly isn’t laughing anymore, until he is and they all are, and Enjolras thinks he has seen enough to want to wipe his eyes clean with bleach, thank you very much, so he takes them away only to have his breath caught at his throat.

He had barely noticed the wild cheering destined to the band that’s abandoning the stage only to be replaced by another. Bahorel, obviously sporting a black eye and another, eyeliner-ed one, looking huge and majestic with his complex Viking braids and all the tribal tattoos peeking under his tight t-shirt is already sat on the drums, eliciting hysteric applause from the pounding audience. Feuilly appears just then, his ginger hair and brown face contrasting almost fiercely in the flashing lights. He obviously hasn’t even bothered to change from his job at the petrol station, still in a pair of ancient overalls and a worn flannel shirt, his tweed cap always balancing dangerously on one side of his afro and as he takes a seat behind the keyboard with natural ease Enjolras thinks it must be the first time in his life he has verbally produced the thought that he’s actually _in love_.

That, until Grantaire comes out, almost purposefully late as if he’s been planning all along to laugh at the crowd’s face in that horrible, smug way of his and enjoy their breathless silence that grips tight on Enjolras’ chest because he’s sharing that with a hundred of strangers and he shouldn’t, he’s feeling selfish and needy, possessive of something he never even dreamt of owning because suddenly everything’s blue, the lights are blue and Grantaire’s eyes, trapped behind those dark circles are the only illuminating source in the bar, his face all scruffy and lazy-looking, as if he’s making them a favor to pass the strap of the guitar over his shoulder and throw his untamed dark curls behind oh so dramatically and the worst of all, _he’s not even doing on purpose._

Another considerable problem is his arms, his tattooed biceps that look ten times more fierce in that light and with that distance, Enjolras realizes how peculiar it is to be sitting lower than the other man, to have to raise his eyes and almost beg to be stared at straight but it never happens because Grantaire is standing on the stage like he owns it (which he does) and he slowly moves those strong, colorful arms of his, veins visible in the fierce light as his long, excellent fingers strum the first chords of a psychedelic melody Enjolras has never heard before, or maybe in some other life.

Enjolras needs a drink.

His friends are screaming their lungs out, Jehan making cheering monkey noises that sound quite majestic over the whole cheering (how is that even possible?) and Courfeyrac whistling deliriously. The first song starts flowing out of their instruments and everything goes hazy, even Combeferre’s rhythmically swaying head near his own, even Musichetta on Courfeyrac’s shoulders and Jehan’s eerie maenad dancing, Joly and Marius arm in arm and Cosette screaming ecstatically as she sways with Éponine and Bossuet in the intoxicating sound of the music. Enjolras however can see nothing of it all, everything’s a blurry haze that causes his head to spin and he asks – croaks – for a drink, causing Combeferre’s eyebrows to almost disappear under his hairline before he asks if he’s feeling alright and eventually provides him with some funny looking fluorescent cocktail with a tiny sugary slice of grapefruit on the surface of the mysterious foggy looking glass.

It burns his throat in a sickly sweet way and he finds himself sipping more and sipping quickly, as if he’s begging everything to go pink and hazy like his drink and not blue and fierce because he can’t look anymore, the merely orgasmic distortion of Grantaire’s expression as he stands in his sinfully tight leather pants, his knees slowly moving on the stage like _sex_  per se, hands making love – no, _fucking –_ with the guitar that suddenly feels like the extension of his body and Enjolras honestly doesn’t know how he’s ever going to lay his eyes on him again without it feeling odd, without Grantaire’s perfect hands chasing the chords in a frantic battle for domination against the rest of the world.

They play some classic stuff and the rest of the songs are their own compositions – he will later learn that Jehan and his accordion skills have been of considerable help, but right now Jehan with his numerous piercings and today’s purple strands of hair pulled into a mess of a bun is too busy moving with a – half-shirtless – Courfeyrac to steps that feel almost spiritual, the way their bodies align and their lips part ever so slightly as if to breathe an unspoken truth in each other’s soul.

The style of their songs quite describes them. Enjolras doesn’t know shit about music but he can tell which one screams _Feuilly_ and what drum solo roars _Bahorel._ And then there are the psychedelic ballads that levitate his soul to the heavens or to the most sacred of hells and he’s begging for Grantaire’s blue eyes to meet with his own but they never do and Combeferre bans him from almost begging for another drink because “you’re a lightweight,” spoken in a rigid, calm voice, and there’s no way he can protest because he’s already too intoxicated to ever need be in need of a drink.

Feuilly’s piano is probably what’s considered to be a religious experience and Bahorel’s drums align with the throbbing in Enjolras’ head. The three of them just _work_ together in ways that they might have not worked out of stage and Enjolras can see Feuilly behind his keyboard shout YOU’RE FULL OF SHIT while Bahorel roars with laughter and makes the whole room pound in coordination with his drumsticks.

_I don’t know why nobody told you how to unfold your love – I don’t know how someone controlled you_

_They bought and sold you_

His world stops turning because Grantaire’s guitar is gently weeping and Enjolras thinks he’s losing it, his head goes light and his limbs numb as their eyes finally meet, they’re so blue and wide and pained, it might be Feuilly singing in an angelic voice but Grantaire’s eyes are drowning him in a whirlpool and suddenly he’s underwater and his lungs are so full of this and empty at the same time.

_I don’t know how you were diverted you were perverted too_

_I don’t know how you were inverted_

_No one alerted_

_you_

The crowd breaks in ecstatic applause and Enjolras feels the urge to cry because their friends (are these just _their friends_?) are coming down of the stage and walking among them, being patted on the back and hugged and congratulated and, heaven forbid, flirted at and seduced into the crowd. No he understands what Grantaire means when he mocks him about walking among humans and suddenly there’s something tight on the back of his throat.

Courfeyrac is standing behind him, currently being seduced by Jehan’s distant, even glassy glances behind Éponine’s shoulders and Enjolras can safely say that he’s never seen his friend so vulnerable and frustrated but he needs help, he really does and Combeferre is not looking at his direction so he grabs his other best friend’s forearm almost desperately.

“Do you think Grantaire likes me?”

He’s met with a terrified, warning look. “Can you not…”

“Do you think?” Enjolras repeats, “that Grantaire likes me?” his eyes are insanely searching into the crowd to see one pretty girl or the other and madly picture her running her nails all over Grantaire’s torso, tracing the colors on his biceps... When he returns to look at Courfeyrac though, his friend’s eyes are glassy and wide open and he’s staring frozen into space as if he’s been hit by lightning.

“Courfeyrac?” Enjolras tugs on the sleeve of his shirt and shakes him violently, receiving no response. “What the hell happened to him?”

“I think you broke him,” Combeferre comes to his aid from behind his shoulder and Enjolras turns to look at his friend. Something is off, something is definitely off because he’s done it, Combeferre has done what Courfeyrac had always called the apocalypse thing and he never does the apocalypse thing or at least he’s never done it for quite a long time but Combeferre is not the grandpa-vest mellow-voiced Remus Lupin-haired Combeferre anymore. Instead his eyes are glowing with a dangerous determination, his cheeks flushed and his sleeves, oh his _sleeves…_ Enjolras can’t remember the last time it happened but Combeferre’s well hidden perfect anatomical tattoos, fragments from Democritus, Epicurus and Heraclitus meddled together in a dizzying net wrapped around his bicep, a map of the galaxy following the lines of the veins on his forearm, computer formulas and colorful molecular complexes all around his elbows, and Enjolras had almost forgotten the look in his eyes that follows the apocalypse but he can see Bahorel getting ready in the distance because _of course_ Combeferre always does the apocalypse with Bahorel.

“No but sometimes I’m quite sure that he hates me and I honestly don’t know…”

“Ferre catch me, I’m falling,” Courfeyrac eventually chokes, never taking his eyes from space as Enjolras stares at both of them in utter frustration.

“Enjolras, just sip your water and eat your peanuts.”

“Will any of you tell me what’s going on?” Enjolras almost shrieks and Combeferre has to grab Courfeyrac’s arms and hold him back warningly.

“Don’t give me the Combeglare,” Courfeyrac chokes breathlessly. “He had it coming. He ran into my bayonet ten times!”

“There, there. Dearie me, you’re rambling,” Combeferre pats his friend because returning to Enjolras. “I think,” he declares the diagnosis seriously, “I quite frankly think you’re experiencing an emotion.”

“Not the heart of marble, I suppose.”

It’s a smug, hoarse voice that comes from behind Enjolras’ shoulder and a smell of smoke and citrus.

Enjolras forgets how to breathe.

*

She remembers herself swearing that she’d never fucking care ever again for the way she looked, not because she was as confident as Cosette was in her own skin, but because she didn’t have the strength anymore, she didn’t have the courage, all of which she should blame to that dominative, masochistic part of herself that drew satisfaction from convincing her not to get over Marius Pontmercy, his horrid navigating skills and eighteen foreign languages, but to stick on him gradually and steadily more just to make the fact that Cosette was trying to get her bestie even harder, and to deprive her from any other happiness that could appear into her life. She remembers herself swearing she’d never wash her jeans again and go out in sweats and athletic bras, not only because she wanted to stick it to The Man and to everyone else who expected her to be pretty and conform in the female societal standards, but also because she hated the idea of making the effort ever again with no obvious reason, as nothing else existed in her life but the possibility of wooing Marius – which would either never happen or would completely fuck up the dynamics of their group if it happened _now_ – and the probability of it never happening, no middle path.

She remembers herself growling that confession to Grantaire after kicking the coffee table with her foot and bringing angry tears to her eyes, therefore now she has a perfectly good reason to want to punch that smug smile off his face as he gives her tight leather skirt and dark lipstick a onceover, eyes briefly stopping at the piercings on her eyebrows and lips on the tattoos bursting out of the sleeves of her maroon t-shirt and her black combat boots, hugging her arms and legs, the poison ivy, the swallows and sea waves, everything but the tattoo that doesn’t show right now, the majestic wolf he drew himself on her back. In fact she would have already punched him if it wasn’t his day and all that shit, having given hundreds of people wet knickers with his music and dramatic rock star look.

In all honesty, she knows it’s him for whom she made an effort so he should probably shut the fuck up and appreciate her congratulations and affectionate headgrip.

Of course that will never happen with Grantaire. Instead he rests lazily against the greasy stool and leans to her ear. “Is it the tattoo unveiling day today?” he smirks, wrapping his own tattooed arm around her colorful shoulders and parting his lips for her to put her cigarette between them and let him share the smoke that levitates slowly in elegant silver tendrils between them and the group of friends that stands on the opposite stool, flashing in and out of visibility beneath the LED lights.

Grantaire is a real fucking piece of shit, she decides once again, reconsidering her choices in friends for the millionth time because how dare he do that to her, why won’t they all leave her alone with their ridiculous tattoos? She faintly recalls the period when they just got themselves shitfaced and fucked, rough and greedy against the couch. It was pretty nice then. No ridiculous boys and their ridiculous hair, no perfect girls and their perfect confidence to remind her of her dark past, just the two of them – occasionally three – getting wasted, drinking and fucking and having all the McDonalds their heart desired.

“Look at Combeferre, the sneaky bastard,” she feels Grantaire’s hoarse voice tickling her ear as the both of them – and half of their gaping at the revelation and the betrayal group – clearly lust over the last bespectacled member they would ever think they eventually would.

“Combeferre is a punk rock nerd,” she hears herself pouting and Grantaire nods next to her, returning her her cigarette which she captures aggressively between her teeth, staining it with maroon lipstick.

“Pretty bangable, I daresay,” exclaims Grantaire and she fixes her eyes on the man feeling particularly strange with herself. Apparently she’s not the only one to do so and suddenly she finds herself wanting to punch the soul out of every man or woman who turns to greedily stare at their Guide.

Grantaire disappears into the crowd as people come to congratulate him and she eventually can see him talking to a positively flustered Enjolras, which makes her snort at their dorkiness and smirk satisfactorily at the same time. She focuses on her beer, probably the fourth for the night – she’s noticed that Cosette can hold her liquor pretty well and she considers that personal offence – staring murderously behind her dark, tangled bangs at everyone who seems to be having fun – and most of all those who can still have fun because of Marius’ disco dance moves.

Just then, she hears a voice on top of the music. “Hey.”

She turns around only to be faced with the bloody traitor, the Lupin turned Pettigrew or the opposite, whatever the fuck has happened. His hair is all ruffled and his eyes glinting behind his glasses. The usual calmness that he diffuses is still apparent yet this once the only impact it has on her is to cause her insides to jump in complete absence of synchronization with the beat of the music. “Hey,” she says back.

“They were perfect, weren’t they?”

“Who were perfect?” she asks stupidly.

“The boys. You’ve probably heard them before but I was pretty impressed.”

“You’ve got tattoos,” is all that she can blurt out, half-accusingly half as if she’s stating out something he hadn’t even noticed like, you’ve got chocolate on your chin or you’ve got a moth on your nose.

He raises an eyebrow. “Well, so do you.”

“Pretty impressive,” she narrows her eyes almost threateningly.

“So they say,” he replies with the same challenging seriousness. He leaves his drink on the bar and God, why does he always have to look like he knows the secrets of the world, like he knows what’s going on in her head, never letting anything slip, just reading her like an open book.

_Oh ye-e-es, read me like an open book._

She mentally kicks herself as he turns around to look at her, always reserved yet straight-forward. “Do you dance?”

The music from the new band is pounding in her veins and they’re close, so close that she can almost feel the warmth radiating from his body. “Only when there’s a good reason,” she replies huskily.

“Care to show me if the reason’s good enough?” he breathes in a deep voice.

She reconsiders her reasons. She looks around in the room, searching for her friends, all relatively busy cornering other people – including Feuilly and Bahorel who are having a rather heated fight on education and she briefly wonders whether they’ll finally get their shit together and tackle each other into kinky multilingual sex in a dark alley. Her eyes fall on Cosette, beautiful Cosette dancing beautifully with her beautiful boyfriend. Marius’ eyes catch her own and they smile. Éponine decides she’s stalked him enough for tonight.

Her hand is on Combeferre’s forearm, leading him to the stage between the other pulsating sweaty bodies. Her hips are swaying against his own and then his hands are resting on her abdomen as they move in unison, his breath warm on her neck.

Only then does it occur to her that she may be in a mighty need to have Combeferre’s babies.

*

Paris in the night invades in your bed and doesn’t let you sleep because you don’t even need to have a view at the Eiffel tower from your window to become distracted. Paris will achieve it anyway, with the magical purple of the sky that invites the city nymphs to wake from their slumber and dance in the streets and between the locks of your hair, beneath your eyelids, and breathe their siren song in your ears. There need not be stars in the sky because there is the light of the city so many centuries twirling in the same sky, forever there, even until you die and after you’ll be reborn. And then there is the song of the traffic and the dance of shadows on your ceiling that will never stop, whimsical, almost captivating, seducing you to die now and die there, to possibly live forever.

They’re not in their beds, not tonight. They’re walking home even though it’s not entirely sure they’ll end up there anytime soon as they’ve ended up somewhere around the general area of the Louvre. Grantaire knows he’s drunk yet he can handle much more than that and he laughs at his friends who’re already faltering and running by the side of the Seine with their arms open in the air, singing out of tune (most of them at least, as Feuilly doesn’t lose his extraordinary talent even after a shitton of cigarettes and one glass too many). They look happy and that’s all that matters, after all who is he to care for the peace of the Parisians who have enough money to live here? By no means is it a secret that he’s had his troubles with the police in the past, and it most definitely wasn’t for being way too rebellious. Mostly noisy, neither proud nor ashamed, he just doesn’t give a fuck.

Today he does though. He gives a fuck. Not for the inhabitants of this crappy street, no. But he does give a fuck. You know, in general. For his friends. For the people he loves. For the way they’ve congratulated him again and again and made him feel important. For the genuine admiration shining in their eyes and the warmth of their arms as they proudly wrapped them around him. For believing in him even when they shouldn’t and allowing him to feel like he belongs somewhere, just for tonight because he’s sure that, when he’ll wake up tomorrow, nothing will have actually happened, he won’t have played the guitar on the small LED lit stage of Thirty Two, he probably won’t even remember to play the guitar and no one will appreciate his skill that way anymore. It is probably all a dream, one he will do everything to cling on and live for as much as he can.

Éponine had to immediately leave to start her shift at the Corinthe and Jehan with Courfeyrac are nowhere to be seen. He normally has the most fun with Bossuet and Joly but they’re both currently busy being scolded by Musichetta and Cosette for tying Marius’ shoelaces together under the table and, even though Grantaire had to admit Pontmercy’s drunken confusion and monotonous self-blame after landing on a car with his bum in the air, causing the alarm to go off was quite worth it, he’s sure that he currently doesn’t wish to be in their position. So he keeps his distance and walks in the middle of the pavement on his own for what seems like a minute or two, shoulders slumped and fists shoved in the pockets of his old oversized parka. That, until he feels someone else walking by his side, not close enough to touch but _enough_ to feel the warmth radiating off his body and smell the faint scent of coffee and coconut shampoo and he knows he’s done that before, he knows they’ve walked side by side and wishes they forever could.

“Mind if I walk with you?” Enjolras asks unusually softly, and it’s a nice change against the soft night breeze from the shouts and chants of their friends.

“Well it _is_ a public street,” he raises an eyebrow, as if he’s addressing a child, and immediately regrets the level of sarcasm that comes out on his voice. Enjolras however has probably not even noticed and, even if he has, he doesn’t seem in the least irritated by it.

“Have I congratulated you?”

“Do you mean what, twelve times?” Grantaire asks but with no mockery in his voice. There is a smile that he’ll deny it’s ridden by pure bliss, tugging on his lips because that’s the most important thing that has happened tonight. Apollo, the God of light – and, ironically, music – actually appreciated his performance. Apollo hasn’t stopped congratulating him. Grantaire doubts he’ll be able to stand much more before letting himself scream in the dead of the night which will be highly improbable anyway as his heart will probably have exploded before he’s able to. “Thank you, it means a lot. I didn’t think you’d like it all that much, if you aren’t shitting me of course.”

“I’m being perfectly honest,” Enjolras confirms with mighty seriousness in his fierce expression. “I…” he swallows and Grantaire turns to stare at him because God how can he be so extraordinarily beautiful, all rebellious youth tonight in the red leather and the spikes and his golden rain of hair all frizzy and loose from its ponytail, shimmering in the night lights. “I enjoyed myself tonight. Thank you for that. You are a man of many talents, Grantaire.”

"Flattery will get you anywhere." His knees feel all wobbly and he’s sure they’ll deceive him here, in the middle of the fucking pavement. Hopefully he’ll fall in the Seine too and won’t have to deal with all these shitty dreams that raise the stake of his expectations for reality Eiffel tower-high. “It’s no big deal, though,” he hears himself murmuring, “I play a fricking instrument, is all.”

“No, that’s not all,” protests Enjolras and for a moment there Grantaire fears that they’ll inevitably end up arguing again. “You do so many things. You cook when I can’t make a toast to save my life and – and you draw…”

“You don’t even know if I draw well,” Grantaire interrupts him more bitterly than he’d accounted for.

“Well you said you’d sketch something for the protest, didn’t you?”

Grantaire’s heart starts racing in his chest, this time not with drunkenness or adoration but with completely conscious anxiety. He had never thought that the situation would be quite like that, that he would actually have finished the task that Enjolras gave them and would be ashamed to admit it, ashamed to show it and have it altered and criticized or quite possibly denied. The hope in Enjolras’ eyes is however so immense, the hope to naively believe in people and prove them they can do stuff that they actually can’t, so different from the rigid, marble man that Grantaire thought to have met when they first saw each other standing there in the doorway.

“Come by tomorrow,” he hears his own hoarse voice coming out without his will, “I’ll have a sketch ready.” A lie. He already has eleven.

“Thanks, that would be great,” Enjolras’ face lights up even more and Grantaire curses internally again and again.

“Anytime, Apollo,” he mutters and he knows he needs a drink, he really badly needs one and he can see the disapproval on the other man’s falling face as he reaches for the flask on his hip. Enjolras frowns and opens his mouth to say something but, luckily enough, he’s interrupted by Bahorel’s voice as they stop in front of a crappy little trolley canteen in the middle of the pavement.

“Oi,” the large man shouts, “I’m hungry all this talent is doing stuff to my appetite, I’m taking some kebab!”

“I want me some good kebab,” Musichetta declares, taking a decisive step on her killer heels.

“Well, be my guest,” laughs Bahorel as Feuilly and Cosette join them for crepes and Combeferre appears behind them, placing a hand on Enjolras’ shoulder.

“Why don’t you take something? You didn’t join us for dinner before we left for the bar and we have nothing at home. I doubt you can find some other place open at that hour of the night.”

Enjolras scrunches up his nose. “I don’t want to get food poisoning, thanks very much.”

Combeferre rolls his eyes. “Come on, just take a damned crepe to keep your energy levels up until tomorrow. I don’t think it will be that bad.”

Enjolras huffs before following his friends at the small canteen – which Grantaire would already have done ages ago if he wasn’t so broke but he’ll steal half of Bahorel’s anyway. He’s left waiting on the side near Combeferre.

For a moment there, the medical student eyes him seriously and Grantaire instinctively wonders what the fuck he’s done wrong again, when only half an hour ago Combeferre was congratulating him most affectionately. He briefly wonders whether the pining man found out that he’d fucked with Éponine in the past and Grantaire learns to fear for his life, however Combeferre doesn’t lose any time to explain himself.

“Grantaire, I want to talk to you about something,” he says all seriously and, Grantaire thinks, with a hint of secrecy in his voice. “Éponine has mentioned something about you needing someone to help you with a painting commission at some gallery.”

“Well, yeah?” Grantaire replies carefully.

“She mentioned that no particular artistic skill is required.”

“Well it isn’t but, you know, you don’t have to do this. I know that you are Saint Combeferre and all but you are insanely busy with studying and hospital and stuff, I don’t want you to worry about dripping…”

“It’s not about me,” Combeferre holds up a hand. “Just… I really want Enjolras to relax a bit, especially with all the stress of the protest coming up. He’s already having a lot on his mind and it’s not doing him good, you’ve seen it with your own eyes.”

Grantaire doesn’t quite understand, or maybe he doesn’t really want to. “Yeeeah?”

“I thought that maybe he could, you know, help you, and maybe diffuse some tension as well. If of course you showed him what to do,” Combeferre’s answer is immediate and well-rehearsed, his voice conspiratory as their friends start returning, Musichetta and Bahorel already Nutella stained from the attack of Cosette and her crepe.

“Sorry to break it to you,” Grantaire hisses quickly, “but I highly doubt Apollo will really appreciate the suggestion.”

“Oh believe me, he will,” Combeferre mutters quickly before briefly squeezing Grantaire’s arm and flashing him an encouraging smile. “Thank you, I owe you for that.”

Grantaire doesn’t have the time to answer because Enjolras appears with chocolate dripping adorably from his chin, ready to protest for the price of crepes and the working conditions of people in street canteens in the middle of the night, and Bossuet has just lost a shoe in the Seine with Joly humming the Indiana Jones theme as Marius has set off for the noble quest of fishing it.

*

In the night the Pont Alexandre III is a bridge that looks as if made by gold. The two rows of lamps brightly illuminate the ground that’s shining with the dampness of some rain that poured earlier that evening, and Jehan can hardly tell whether they’re walking on the bridge or on the water of the Seine itself, their eyes staring forward or at their shoes, or at the golden sculptures of Renommée des Arts and Renommée des Sciences. They have a view of the Grand Palais and they can both hear Offenbach’s Barcarolle coming from a small bateau mouche floating on the dark, illuminated waters of the river beneath their feet. Jehan can feel his heart pounding loudly in his head as their shoulders accidentally brush together, and he shivers against the unwelcomingly cold spring night breeze. Courfeyrac notices and, before he can feel it coming, the man’s strong arms are wrapped around his shoulders as if to protect him from his cold and the other man has pulled him against his chest.

Only then do they realize the pace of their erratic breathing that’s matching the rhythm of the distant violins that burst out of a dream without Jehan’s permission. The shorter man slowly raises his glance, resting his chin on Courfeyrac’s chest, feeling their heartbeats entwine. Their eyes meet and Courfeyrac doesn’t loosen his grip around him. “Let me try something,” he breathes and, before Jehan has time to think of a reply, one arm has moved on his waist, holding him close enough for him to feel the warmth radiating from Courfeyrac’s body, and the brunet’s other hand has clasped his own, leading him to a waltz on the mostly empty bridge.

Jehan can swear his heart is pounding in ¾ meter, that it has forever done so. Their eyes are locked together and they’re flying without any wings, they don’t need them.

The violins go on and they stop breathless in the middle of the bridge, just where the Nymph sculptures are supposed to be for those staring at the bridge from a boat in the Seine. Jehan shudders in Courfeyrac’s arms, his long hair escaping his braid and floating in the wind. His voices falls out soft, like the petals of the rose, fierce like every thorn that pierces Courfeyrac’s heart again and again. “Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art…” his cold, trembling fingers come to touch Courfeyrac’s brow. “Not in love splendour hung aloft the night,” they trace his cheekbones, “…and watching, with eternal lids apart,” a shaky breath warms his skin, “like nature’s patient, sleepless Eremite,” he brushes away a dark curl, “the moving waters at their priestlike task…”

They don’t dare to shut their eyes because it’s a dream they can only live awake, and live it they shall.

Courfeyrac is holding him tight on his chest, never letting him go now that he found him because Jehan doesn’t want to go, there’s nowhere he’d rather be because there’s nothing in the world but Paris and their hearts beating together in a river of violins. “Too bad there are no stars though,” Courfeyrac mutters hoarsely.

“Ask me no more where those stars light,” he breathes upon Courfeyrac’s skin, slowly lowering his hands and stroking the other man’s forearms, “that downwards fall in dead of night,” he raises his eyes to fix them in Courfeyrac’s green ones. “For in your eyes they sit, and there, fixed become as in their sphere,” before standing on his tiptoes and closing the distance between them, forever swallowing the rain from Courfeyrac’s lips as the Eiffel tower in the distance waltzes carousel-style around the bridge in the rhythm of a star-kissed violin.

_And so live ever – or else swoon to death._

*

Enjolras doesn’t know what to expect when he knocks the door of their neighbours’ apartment. His brain is mostly working on potential forms of political sketches for pamphlets and posters, though even more focused on the possibility – _probability –_ of Grantaire having actually done nothing, of maybe finding him passed out in the bathtub instead, drowned in whiskey and his own puke.

Being greeted by a mess of wild curls and paint dripping on sweaty skin probably does not occupy a position on top of his list.

Grantaire is a mess. Not a bad mess. Nope, not bad at all. For once Grantaire is a… not a _good_ mess either, there’s no such thing as good mess, and Grantaire and ‘good’ can’t go in the same sentence together, at least not in the virtuous sense of the word but, then again, can a mess possess any kind of virtue? Enjolras doesn’t know. It’s just an odd mess, an oddly likeable mess, that makes him feel comfortable and uncomfortable at the same time, at home even though it’s just an apartment built like his own but ever so obviously furnished by Jean Prouvaire, but it’s not that. There’s something that builds up a warm fuzziness in his stomach at the sight of a disheveled Grantaire, his face and arms and dark curls covered in paint, a brush in his hand and his blue eyes staring back at him with a slightly taken aback grin that Enjolras can’t take his own eyes away from. On the other hand, there is a perfectly valid reason for his eyes to prefer to stay focused on Grantaire’s face even though that might make his stomach do that odd, annoying flip, because the rest of him is pretty much not wearing a shirt, only a pair of baggy, paint stained jeans and _God_ that is art, not only the one probably produced by his hands but also those hands themselves and the subtle curves of his veins that come up to his arms and get wrapped in the whirlpool of colors on his biceps and there are _more_ tattoos, on his toned torso just below his collarbones and Enjolras doesn’t think staring is right but at the same time how can he _not,_ his fucking _eyes_ are almost aching from the effort, or maybe it’s just the myopia, he doesn’t know anymore.

“So,” he gulps, cursing himself from the tone of his voice that comes out a bit more choked than he’d wished it to. “I came about the pamphlets?”

“I don’t know, you tell me,” Grantaire curves an eyebrow, the smile never ending on his face and Enjolras decides it’s a look he could easily get used to. Maenad appears meowing menacingly from the corridor and Enjolras cringes. The cat hisses at him and he almost steps back, but she’s just limited in rubbing herself lazily against Grantaire’s bare feet. He bends over to scratch behind her ears and his body bends so that Enjolras can see the colors tracing on his stretched spine just below the dark curls on the nape of his neck and his breath hitches on his throat. Before he’s able to stare at the dark shape on his shoulder blade though, Grantaire has straightened his body again and is already heading to his room. “Just let me make myself presentable, I guess,” he hears him call and he can only take a glimpse of wax wings being burnt by the sun as the man moves to his room.

Enjolras just stands at the doorway feeling uncomfortable for a while. Maenad is staring at him with sinister yellow eyes and a shiver runs through his spine. He’s a hundred percent positive that this animal is a Satan incarnate and he decides that if she hisses at him one more time he’ll hiss back but she just stands there, staring at him creepily and all he can eventually do is mutter “Hi, how’s life?”

But then the cat takes her eyes away from him, relatively unimpressed, and starts licking her paw which leaves him feeling like an utter fool, especially when he realizes that Grantaire has been standing in the room all this time with a quirked eyebrow and a t-shirt on – as Enjolras notes _not with disappointment._

“Are you going to come in or do your immediate plans solely consist of seducing my cat?”

Enjolras clears his throat and walks inside the apartment, giving a quick look around the living room which is dimly lit apart from a line of cotton ball fairy lights that hang above the cushion pile in the corner. “Jehan forgot to turn them off,” Grantaire shrugs his shoulders. “His head is too full with the kind of poetry that mustn’t be taught in high school to remember such trifles, you know, getting inspiration for doing your bestie and all.”

“Where did you find that monstrous Cat anyway?” he asks, trying to change the conversation.

“She came in through the bathroom window,” muses Grantaire enigmatically.

Enjolras feels mildly confused but doesn’t question it any further. It’s a surprisingly relaxing atmosphere and he wonders whether it would be acceptable to find an excuse and stay there just for a little more, maybe ten minutes, just to change environment and clear his mind before returning to proofread Courfeyrac’s speech…

His eyes fall on the record pile near scattered in the middle of the room and Grantaire’s eyes follow his own. “Yeah, it’s a mess I guess, we don’t have no Combeferre here,” the man mutters, rushing to gather them back at the corner. “We have a Feuilly though who came by and I was looking for that Floyd disc that he wanted to borrow…”

“Don’t…” Enjolras hears himself blurting out. “Abbey Road… I just – could I have a look?”

Grantaire raises his glance, looking relatively taken aback. “Sure,” he says slowly, picking up the worn record case and handing it to him. “I didn’t know you liked The Beatles.”

“Walking around declaring I like The Beatles would be like walking around declaring I have nostrils,” Enjolras responds way too quickly, leaving Grantaire looking speechless.

“Right. Of course,” he chuckles a bit breathlessly. “Fuck, thanks. That’s the right answer, you win a golden star.” Enjolras raises his eyes and they lock for a minute. It’s like meeting each other all over again from a completely different perspective, in another apartment or maybe some other universe with fairy lights instead of stars, where nothing has to go wrong, nothing has to feel strange, it’s just natural that yes, they both like The Beatles and there’s an old vinyl record between them and Grantaire looks as if he has finally seen the sun.

The silence that falls is palpable, conducted only by the sound of their breathing and the cat licking her own asshole or something tremendously romantic as that but then what can you do... It’s a century or two until Enjolras breaks it. “Could we… maybe could we listen to it? I haven’t had the chance for so long.”

Grantaire does a poor job at hiding the flush that spreads on his unshaven cheeks. “How could I refuse?” he mutters. “We’d have to get to my room though.”

“Your room?” Enjolras asks stupidly, realizing that, for as long as they’ve lived with their heads next to each other, he’s never been in Grantaire’s room before, he’s never seen what the man sees from his bed, which tiny streak of Paris he can stare at from the small window, how the constant tapping of his foot on the floor while he studies is heard through the thin wall, he’s wondered what it’d smell like, if it would smell of citrus…

“It smells of…” he hears himself blurting out before anything else, the whole feeling of comfort and warmth dissolving from his system only to be replaced with worry and well-rehearsed disgust.

“ _Voldemort_ ,” Grantaire turns around as soon as they’re in the room, that familiar sarcastic spark glinting in his eyes. “You can say it with me, the word alone won’t harm you or get you high, you know. Montparnasse says it approximately twelve times per minute.”

“I don’t care what Montparnasse does,” Enjolras replies dryly, frowning at Grantaire’s general direction, before looking around at the small, dark bedroom. “I don’t like him.” The grilles aren’t opened and the smell must have been here for quite a while, together with usual cigarettes and a subtle scent of autumn and _citrus._

“Don’t worry, he doesn’t like you either,” Grantaire croons merrily. “He’s still not over the fact that you look like that during your exams _and_ in the morning. He’d love to slit your throat or something and bargain his soul for your looks. Also that red pea coat of yours. He’d even break his all-black code for it.”

Enjolras glares at him darkly. “You smoke weed,” he murmurs, stating the patently obvious as if it’s the most ground breaking fact in the whole universe.

“Relax it’s not like I do _drugs,”_ the dark haired man sighs gravely, falling back on his bed and propping his head on his elbow, not really caring for the paint that’s going to stain the covers.

Enjolras’ eyes get easily used to the dim light coming from a small desk lamp. Said desk is scattered with brushes and colors and small cups full with colored water. There are a few old books on a dusty shelf and other than that the limited surface of the floor is mostly hidden by a couple of empty beer bottles and a pizza box that will soon probably start to rot. It’s not somewhere he could live in, not in a million years, but every corner screams Grantaire and for a moment there, he feels at home.

The pickup is on the floor like pretty much everything else in the room, next to the head of Grantaire’s mattress. He simply bends over and hands Grantaire the disc, who manages to get it started with one arm stretched lazily over his pillow. It’s the second side, Enjolras can sense his heart skipping a beat when the first notes of Here Comes the Sun fall mellow and bright in the room. He hardly even notices Maenad who peers through the half-opened door and gives one good jump on the mattress, curling up on Grantaire’s chest who does nothing to send her away or even relocate himself, just starts stroking her with an almost tender expression on his face and Enjolras stands there for a while, slightly mesmerized. It’s so peculiar a feeling, to feel those notes and chords slowly melt inside him after all this time.

Grantaire pats the empty space of the mattress near his stomach and Enjolras eventually kicks off his shoes and climbs up, sitting cross-legged, looking a bit intimidated at first at the way Maenad is eyeing him as if he wants his sweet soul in a teacup, then gradually regaining his comfort together with the Cat’s tolerance (even though he’ll forever be determined that she hates him with a burning passion).

“So, favorite song?” Grantaire asks, his voice adorned almost with the veneration of a prayer. It suits him, Enjolras decides, but he can’t really think about it because he hasn’t felt so relaxed since the day at the park yet now it’s more of a whimsical experience, just the two of them alone in a dark room with music that seems to come from a distance, maybe from years that will never return, a world that’s long ago slipped through his fingers, yet it’s just a pillow away from them.

“I think that’s the one, such beautiful music,” Enjolras mutters slowly, shaking his head at the pickup. “Also Lady Madonna. Let it be and Come Together. I mean, you can never pick one with The Beatles, can you?”

“Of course you can’t,” Grantaire mutters as the psychedelic notes of Because are filling the room and Enjolras shudders at the perfection. “It’s okay Apollo, don’t cry,” the artist mocks, “you didn’t strike me as so…”

“Artistically sensible?” Enjolras quivers an eyebrow.

“God no,” chuckles Grantaire before his face goes straight again, his expression distant. “Just, you know, human.”

“There’s lots of things you don’t know about me,” the blonde frowns. They don’t talk for a while, just sit there and listen to the whimsical melody that give them goosebumps and dull their every thought almost eerily. “So,” Enjolras eventually asks, a bit dazed, remembering the reason he sacrificed some time from his busy schedule in first place. “The sketches.”

“Right,” Grantaire half groans, scrunching up his face. “I’d hoped you’d forgotten about them but of course, you would never deceive your loyal Mistress, Liberty, would you?”

“I wouldn’t,” replies Enjolras calmly and he can’t see Grantaire’s face as the man stretches his body over the mattress and fishes under a pile of pencil stricken sheets under a couple of books.

“Listen, I know they really do suck, but it was me you assigned them to,” Grantaire mutters looking fairly flustered and uncomfortable, carefully handing them to the other man. “You should have known better.” And with that he pretends to not care, to not throwing nervous glances to the younger man as he inspects the sketches, absently humming I should have known better.

“They’re great,” Enjolras breathes eventually, browsing one piece of work after the other, and he means every syllable. Innovative and unique, Grantaire’s identity evident on every single one of them, snarky and witty slogans, sharp lines and perfect shadows, making the message stand out like a punch in the guts. Enjolras loves them, Enjolras can’t think properly anymore, he can only mutter nonsense to himself. “So great… They’ll work so well for the protest… maybe a bigger font size here… On the posters…” Eventually, he raises his eyes to be faced with a breathless Grantaire. “These are exactly what we need, and more. Thank you so much for your work.”

“Honestly?” Grantaire asks blankly, reprocessing the information as if he’s passed out and had the most absurd dream. “Like, are you shitting me? Could you maybe repeat yourself?”

“Of course. You’re very talented, Grantaire,” he says passionately, feeling his cheeks burning with excitement. “You should show me some more of your sketches. I mean, I’d really appreciate it if you would, I know I wouldn’t understand art to save my life but...”

“Uh…” the dark haired man seems slightly taken aback, his pale blue eyes opened widely in surprise. “Yeah ok, whatever you say, maybe some other time though.”

Enjolras looks way too excited, he even extends a hand and strokes the cat’s fur and Grantaire, who has barely managed to contain himself all this time almost dies, because it’s Enjolras in his room, it’s Enjolras listening to Abbey Road and praising his drawing, and when did hell break loose? Grantaire’s heart is racing madly in his chest as the medley goes on and the first piano notes of Golden Slumbers fill the room, wrapping him gently into a veil of serenity like they do every time. Maenad is a warm weight on his stomach that always makes him feel safe and now Enjolras is touching her, stroking her fur absently and she purrs contentedly and Grantaire honestly swears it’s Montparnasse’s junk, he swears he’s not smoking it again because what the actual fuck is he hallucinating for?

The record is scratching on the pickup as Enjolras turns to look at him and Grantaire forgets how to breathe because those blue eyes, and the halo of an angel, it’s the God of Sun himself and he can’t possibly be sitting on his mattress, lighting his dark shithole of a bedroom as if he belongs there, easy and simple as that for Apollo incarnate to pay him a visit and compliment him on his work, _to thank him for his help, to accept it…_

“Is that tattoo new?”  

Grantaire is cruelly brought back to reality, freezing in his position on the bed. “What tattoo?”

“That black one on the back of your shoulder.” He doesn’t need to explain. It’s winds of wax begging to be melted by the light that’s going to liberate him forever, forever aflame and more alive than ever because only now he can fly, forever engraved deep in the skin of Grantaire’s back.

 _Icarus_.

“Do you know how a new tattoo looks like?” he tries to turns the conversation into harmless sarcasm, his area of expertise.

“Well, let’s say I do,” Enjolras replies calmly.

Grantaire nods slowly as it downs him. “Of course you do, I’d almost forgotten. You live with Combeferre, the sneaky bastard.”

Enjolras just sits there, stroking a purring and stretching Maenad and sizing her up with his burning gaze as if he’s trying to decide on something very important. And just then, before another word, he turns himself around and lowers the loose sleeve of his red t-shirt.

_Once there was a way_

_To get back home_

On the same spot on his left shoulder blade, _Liberté_ is written calligraphically.

Grantaire inhales a deep, shaky breath, greedily sucking in every second, every tiny spot of black ink on satin creamy skin because he knows he’ll never have the privilege to see this again, his fingers will never get to touch the lucky ink that’s forever engraved in the sacred flesh…

“Combeferre has _Égalité_ and Courfeyrac _Fraternité_ ,” he eventually fixes his sleeve in place again, crushing Grantaire’s world into pieces before he turns to face him and melt him all over again. There is a hint of a smile on his youthful, breathtaking face, a look which no artist could ever capture, not with the most ethereal of colors on the most magical piece of marble, not Da Vinci, never Praxiteles. “Predictable, are we not?”

_Sleep pretty darling do not cry, and I will sing a lullaby…_

There’s nothing they can hear but the breaths that fall from their lips and mingle together, and the music that changes to Carry That Weight. It’s a breath, maybe two or a thousand, and their hands are touching, skin brushing on skin ever so faintly but enough to make them shudder, to throw a wave of electricity all through their bodies, so much that the cat jumps of Grantaire’s knees and disappears at the other corner of the bed, obviously irritated.

“Don’t die Apollo,” Grantaire breathes and it’s drunk yet Enjolras has never looked less of a mortal before, all glorious and powerful as if he can hold the world in one warm palm.

“You’re being nonsensical,” he mutters in a deep voice.

He lowers his eyes and traces circles on his knee with the tips of his fingers, thinking of Poussin's landscape with the young, immortal people who have taken his breath away before in the Louvre. “Et in Arcadia ego...” he murmurs.

Enjolras stares at him penetratingly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, or how you can talk about it,” the music on the background is wrapping them in a veil of trust and determination, a will to stand up and keep going, like The Beatles had always managed to do. Words fall like pearls from Enjolras’ blood red lips, and for a second or maybe an eternity they’re swimming on the mattress, it’s a lake in some faraway place and the leader’s eyes are glowing, reflecting in its waters. “You don’t believe in this anyway.”

_And in the end_

“Maybe I don’t believe in death,” Grantaire can sense the words burning in his mouth before melting all over his chest, his palms, like hot clay yet it doesn’t burn his skin, it’s merely soothing a feeling.

_The love you take_

“Do you believe in anything?” Enjolras asks and the world stops for a while.

_Is equal to the_

“Across the Universe,” murmurs Grantaire eventually, softer than a whisper, his eyes caressing the other man with veneration.

“What?” Enjolras looks puzzled, even flustered, and Grantaire is drowning, and drowning…

“You asked me if I could pick a song,” breathes Grantaire, their hands always brushing together. “It’s Across the Universe.”

_love_

Warm fingers wrap around his own as the world explodes in a million suns. They don’t speak, they don’t need to. Just their hands clasp tightly in a silent agreement fire and ice in a song that needs no harmony and has no ending.

_you make_

They stay like that forever, and then a little more, or maybe just until her Majesty’s a pretty nice girl.


	9. With skin too tight and eyes like marbles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **[francebeforepants, 18:55]** What was that noise?  
>  **[R, 18:56]** …  
>  **[R, 18:56]** it has to be me hasn’t it  
>  **[R, 18:56]** u see enjolras when it’s spring and the bees fly to the little flowers  
>  **[francebeforepants, 18:56]** Grantaire is Courfeyrac at your apartment?  
>  **[francebeforepants, 18:57]** Is Jehan at your apartment?  
>  **[R, 18:57]** …  
>  **[R, 18:57]** apollo it _is_ jehan's apartment  
>  **[francebeforepants, 18:57]** Oh  
>  **[R, 18:57]** oh  
>  **[francebeforepants, 18:58]** So can I erase my memory with hair bleach?  
>  **[R, 18:58]** do u dye ur hair  
>  **[R, 18:58]** this is important do u dye ur hair
> 
> _Or the one where Jehan is doing poetry slam, Courfeyrac is doing Jehan, Combeferre is a Saint, Joly is loved and not a burden and Enjolras and Grantaire share some interesting revelations._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just don't know what to apologize for first. I guess it's obvious I haven't updated in what feels like a month or so but we begin our exams in about three weeks -and it's going to flow non-stop until the beginning of August in a burning, humid Athens, and I'm trying my best not to abandon everything and sleep forever. You probably understand it's not my most creative and merry period, and that inevitably shows in the embarrassing quality of this chapter. So I'm sorry for that too. Here's the complete absence of a plot -apart from some good ol' frick-fracking for which I neither am sure- and some bad writing but I'll hopefully get round to doing something better when this exam hell is over.  
> And last but not least, I'm so sorry for the painful length of this chapter. It turned out no less than 25 pages but, when I tried to cut it in half, it just wouldn't function so please, if you want to read it just take your time and cut it in half as if it were two separate chapters hoofuckingray. I just couldn't post half of it because it felt wrong when I read it so...  
> Now, the poem that Jehan reads on the poetry reading is absolutely ridiculous because I obviously wrote it and I don't know SHIT about poetry, plus I haven't been to a real poetry reading before as the last one I found in my country was a misfortune. So please, PLEASE let's all pretend that this is good and decent and something that Jehan would write because I did my best NOT to have him read someone else's poem like he does later, and obviously Jehan is much MUCH better than this shit.  
> As for reciting other people's poems, the EXCELLENCE that he recites during doing the do later in this chapter is 'Hymn to Intellectual Beauty' by Percy Bysshe Shelley because in France they might be, but Jehan knows hella English and for the timebeing I'm a tiny bit more educated on English Romanticism than I am on French. It is a breathtaking poem written for poetic, not sexual ecstasy, but I like to get the feeling that Jehan mingles the bliss of creation in those two like he mingles God with the future. I'm sorry Shelley, my love, please don't thou spinest in thine grave together with beloved Hugo.  
> After that I tried to write a moment for Joly where he's actually sick, because hypochondria is not something to laugh at and I wanted to portray how awful it can get, especially when people around you sometimes -not deliberately- fail to understand. Please, excuse me for everything that I've written in a wrong, melodramatic or offensive manner, please please please do tell me your opinions so that I can change anything and develop my writing.  
> And in the end of the chapter, well I quite like that. I mean, it's still pretty early in the story but our babies are finally getting their shit together and Enjolras is working for those feelings he can't quite identify, can you tell? Give that darling boy a cookie and a golden Robespierre vest.  
> So here's my shitty chapter, I guess. Whole and long as fuck. Please don't hate me after that, I promise I will try my best in the next one because I quite like the shenanigans ensuing in the future.  
> Constructive criticism and opinions of any kind are always more than welcome.  
> Title is from 'Lover of the light' by Mumford and Sons.  
> WARNING: Smut. Explicit smut with poetry that's not mine and some poetry that's mine. Also hypochondria and minor illness.

Jehan is sitting on a table in the middle of the café of their bookshop with his legs swaying nervously back and forth. He hasn’t been in enough poetry readings before and he’s never read aloud himself, if that’s something he should note. He’s biting the purple glitter nail varnish off his nails and every tick on Monsieur Mabeuf’s old clock on the wall is accelerating the rhythm of his heart even more. The fact that Courfeyrac is sitting on a chair, trying to sip what Grantaire calls ‘pretentious poetic tea’ _maybe_ just to please him, chatting passionately with the rest of his friends, his green eyes falling on him every now and then and lighting up at what seems to be his galaxy printed skirt and his mint green creepers and matching strand on his hair, the leather leggings of Cosette that he’s wearing and the way he’s biting his lips, well _those eyes_ on him cause the blood in his veins to burn like bloody lava.

Most of them are here – he already knows that Feuilly is working tonight though that angel of a man promised he’d pass by later – and he forever regrets inviting them. Combeferre and Bahorel seem to be in a heated conversation concerning the scientific basis and historical approach of different tattoo techniques, formally excluding the serious induction that they’re all hella rad. Cosette is braiding Éponine's dark hair in full Daenerys style, Jehan notes proudly, and they’re both beautiful in their relatively grunge and tea dresses. It’s also somewhere between exciting and amusing that both Combeferre and Marius seem to notice, stealing a mixture of serious, pained and bedazzled glances, the first behind his pride and the latter behind his book. His Russian book. In Russian.

“Aw look at Marius,” Grantaire coos after his second Irish coffee. “He’s searching true love in Soviet literature!”

“Oh yes, talk sickle moons to me baby,” snorts Éponine sarcastically and Grantaire shoots her a look only the two of them can share.

“But Marius is interested in the Middle Ages,” Jehan grins, particularly glad to be able to actually participate in a conversation and momentarily forget how nervous he really feels. “He asked me about fellow Jehans the other day, I put him some Jehan de Lescurel music,” Marius raises his eyes behind his book and stares at them dreamily. “He absolutely _loved_ it!”

Éponine almost chokes on her drink and Bahorel has to hit her back. “Exactly, because he’s fucking _Pontmercy_ ,” Grantaire bends over the table to pinch Marius’ tomato red cheek.

“You’re just jealous,” Cosette teases Grantaire before leaning in to place a kiss on the tip of Marius’ nose, “that you don’t get to sleep next to an adorable little Marxist who waxes sweet anachronistic poetic in his sleep while you spoon him!”

Éponine pretends to throw up behind Bahorel’s back and it’s Grantaire’s turn to choke on his drink.

“So where’s our beloved _ménage-à-trois_?” Bahorel asks cheerfully and Jehan tries not to stare at the first poem of the night, a pretty confident girl walking to the podium, and at the same time to stare even less at Courfeyrac and his radiant green gaze that burns through his already prickly skin.

“Joly has a problem with his knee again,” Cosette explains and Combeferre frowns slightly. “Bossuet and Musichetta leave to spend Sunday with their respective families so the lovebirds are having a not-so- _quiet_ night in tonight.”

“And what about Enjolras? He could use a break from all the protest work…”

Jehan can sense Grantaire tense even with four chairs occupied by five of their friends – Marius cradled on Cosette and Courfeyrac’s laps – between them.

“Well yes, darling!” Courfeyrac stifles a mischievous chuckle, shooting Combeferre a meaningful glare. “Also _someone_ mentioned something about Jackson Pollock to Enjo, and apparently he’s immensely interested in the _revolution_ of Modern Art, so much that he promised dear Combeferre here that he’ll actually have a break from his work and spend it reading about _dripping_.”

The last of it comes out as immensely wrong and Marius has to clear her throat several times while Cosette eyes all of them with a gigantic dimply smile on her pretty face and Grantaire has to pretend he’s drowning in his drink.

“Did you talk R into doing this with your Apollo friend?” Jehan notices Éponine hiss under her breath to Combeferre when Grantaire looks away at the girl on the podium who’s started reciting her poem, causing most of the chatter in the audience to cease.

“Of course not,” Combeferre mouths, casually sips his chocolate before raising his innocent, serious eyes upon her and if Éponine doesn’t melt with that look then Jehan honestly doesn’t know what’s wrong with his friend.

“Surprise interfering motherfucker,” Éponine snorts quietly. “I don’t _believe you_.”

Combeferre whispers in innocent offence. “Are you calling me a liar?”

“Well,” Éponine takes a sip from her beer before leaning closer, positively menacing. “I ain’t calling you a truther.”

“Maybe your _friend_ did,” Combeferre whispers casually before returning to the chocolate he’s nursing once more, pretending he’s listening to the poem.

“What…?” Éponine is quite taken aback by that unexpected attack from the ever so composed bespectacled member of their group. “What friend, what the fuck are you talking about?”

“Gavroche told me of Montparnasse. He seems to approve of all the way that man manipulates the lot of you.”

“Oh so now you’ve formed an opinion of _Parnasse_.”

“Well I trust Gavroche’s process of information giving.”

“So now you dislike people _a priori_?” hisses Éponine, obviously mocking Combeferre for the way he always questions the most ridiculously absurd details before accepting their truth.

“Precisely,” Combeferre smiles and, just then, the bookshop is shaken with applause.

Jehan goes numb and freezes on spot. He feels Courfeyrac’s eyes immediately turning on him and, as much as one part of him wants to grab the man’s face and kiss him senseless in the middle of the crowd, then elope together, there is a stronger part that wants to jump on his heels and runs away before he’s ridiculed in front of everyone who cares for him on this world.

“Is it your turn?” Cosette whispers loudly to be heard through her clapping.

Jehan nods slowly, feeling quite sick on his stomach. His hands are shaking and he’s getting butterflies. The way that Courfeyrac leans over the table where he’s sitting and grabs his face in his warm, strong hands doesn’t really help.

“Give them hell, flower,” his voice overshadows the cheering and, without a warning, he kisses him straight on his lips.

Jehan doesn’t know how he would feel for such a display in front of everyone else under different circumstances, he doesn’t even know how he feels about his friends cheering and _actually paying bets!_ He almost feels offended, they’re not as bad as Enjolras and Grantaire, they’re _not quite the same_. Jehan doesn’t know anything, Jehan is fucking scared but, at that very moment, the only thing that Jehan can do is lean over the table and throw his fingers in Courfeyrac’s soft chocolate curls, kissing him back blissfully as most of the tension dissolves from his body and the moths in his stomach are replaced with the most beautiful colorful butterflies with fluttering silk wings.

He almost flies on the podium, his heart ready to explode from his chest. From a distance he can see Grantaire and Éponine leaning over the table and saying something to a perfectly glowing Courfeyrac. Jehan half wishes they’re not threatening their friend’s life because he can deal with it on his own, thank you very much.

The audience goes silent and for a moment there, Jehan considers being sick all over the microphone. He had underestimated the size of the crowd, he had underestimated the kind expectation in Père Mabeuf’s eyes in the distance, the admiration and devotion in his friends’ beaming faces, all those pairs of eyes right on him and _God_ his knees are turning into jelly, he’s going to collapse but then all eyes disappear because only two of them matter in the middle of the crowd and they’re green like the damp meadows that smell of green and nothing matters anymore because Jehan is

_Jehan is alive._

He takes the microphone in his hand, his eyes never abandoning Courfeyrac’s bright smile.

Jehan clears his throat.

_I’ve seen beauty_

_I’ve seen beauty in all the glassy shades reflected on every single grain of sand beneath their scraped, ancient feet and I’ve heard it in the miraculous melody of freedom as they rhythmically thump on the burning ground, tired yet restless and seeking for salvation._

_I’ve seen beauty in the gaps between their crooked teeth, in the colors of their skin as they mingle on the bedsheets of some long forgotten fatally depressed Iris that could have been saved if it hadn’t been for the limits of the rainbow that a hypocritical Zeus imposed upon her during the rosy-kissed dawn of her rebellious youth, telling her that “It’s just a phase.”_

_I’ve seen beauty in the pattern of their callused hands as they clasped tightly again and again and again, entrapping each breath of countless revolutions that falls from chapped lips, split and bloody and kissed back to eternity and into oblivion. And again._

_I’ve seen beauty in the reminiscence of a rose that withered but will have forever left its scent in a garbage bin full of shattered hopes for change. I’ve seen beauty not in an orchid but in her genitals that look nothing like it, that make her no less of a woman than you, she’s not the spitting blood Romantic heroine of your novel, not the Eurydice that you saved and betrayed again, not the Persephone that you raped and bewitched, she’s not the ethereal Anonymous of your Victorian poem with her creamy breasts and pearl necklace, she’s not the Pre-Raphaelite shade that will fade when your words do. She’s a woman not because her DNA or her God says so, as He’s the first one who bows before her feet and kisses them with a feather-like whisper, begging her to be whatever the fuck she wants to be, she’s the protagonist of her own story, the conqueror of that brave new world which she will reconstruct from the very beginning without the help of your strong arms, without the obligation to fill in the blanks for the birth you can’t breathe into things and adapt into the norms and roles that you impose on her, giving birth to you all over again gracefully and with no complexities other than those of pure gentleness of a restless forest nymph that truly is a Goddess, free of any vanity, easy for her to smile not because she is obliged, not because your bigoted self-absorbment demands that she does but because the sun rose again and He’s kissing her fingers one by one, two worlds away from your pathetic, cannibalistic voyeurism._

_I’ve heard beauty in the voice of the marble that suffocates those who cannot speak anymore, the Patroclus and the Aristogeitons, the Ganymedes and the Sapphos of the centuries, their pulse pumping through the yellowish pages of a book every time you greedily sniffle its ancient dust, a breath of those who knew little Latin and less Greek and those who once punched you in the face because rose is a rose is a rose is a rose._

_I’ve seen beauty in the way your flames are braided in my flower crowns and in the anxious panting of the cops after they catch your eye and timidly, like children doing their silent rebellion against the biscuit restriction and rioting against those who were born by that same repressive mother, calling you ‘brother’ instead._

_I’ve seen beauty not only in the rays of the sun playing with the dark locks of your hair but also in the faint whisper of the word cre-pu-scule when you think that something’s reached its end but its then that it vomits the most radiant colors out of an Impressionist painting and baby, ‘Impressionist’ started off as a slur until art adopted and embraced it in the way you should embrace the warmth of your own skin and the shape your clay is given by another hand that Rodin would be jealous of and Bernini would ecstatically bow before._

_I’ve seen beauty in the way Borges understood what it is to feel the gentle whim of a tomb when it silently comforts you and wraps its ivy around your bruised legs only to pull you down where History lies and where you’ll be in no need of a sword because all the silver shall be used to carve your perfect lips for eternity upon his own._

_I’ve seen beauty in their long hair, short, shaved hair, in the multitudes of fauvist tattoos on their sacred skin, in the constellations of freckles gently embracing those piercings that you can’t stop staring at, I’ve seen beauty in his heels and makeup because who said that bras were made to hold up breasts if they can’t hold up hard-earned dignities and devastated long abandoned tomorrows?_

_I’ve seen beauty in God_

_And that was when He_

_Or She_

_Or maybe Xe_

_They carried me to the Future_

When the bookshop explodes into applause and his friends burst up at the mic to congratulate him but Jehan doesn’t see, doesn’t hear, he _can’t._ Jehan is dizzy, Jehan is intoxicated, and the first thing that Jehan can do, is fall in the heaven of Courfeyrac’s arms and kiss him deeply and again, feeling himself resurrected in the meadow of his glance.

*

He finds him sitting on his bed with his knees pulled close to his body. He’s staring absently at the small pot on his desk where he’s cultivating a pansy in the middle of what seems like an explosion of notes and books, as if the damp soil (he’s watered it today) from which the tiny purple petals are trying to peek is going to grant him with a life changing revelation, the most important secret in his life.

The exile of spring and the warm mornings they’ve spent in gardens or cycling has given Jehan a tan, Courfeyrac notes. Not that his skin has lost any of the pale pearl shine of the moon that doesn’t quite fit in the scenery of an early summer day. Just his legs and soft thighs pressed close to his chest, rusty and sunkissed, the milkyway of freckles on his nose and shoulders now more alive than an abundance of dancing daffodils.

It is a dull afternoon, way too humid for the early of the season and the angle of the sun that’s pushing its way through the transparent curtains almost intrudes in Courfeyrac’s peace of mind, dizzying him slightly and causing his step to falter just for a second. He sits on the edge of Jehan’s bed and feels scared for a while, he’s never been like that before because no one has ever made the blood in his veins pump with all the songs of spring as she meddles with summer and slowly mingles in their erotic coupling, his steps have never aligned with the rhythm of chanting birds or the distant reggae sounds and the pouring of water coming through the open bathroom window of the second floor where a girl who always performs in the shower.

His heart is pulling a revolution against the borders of his torso yet everything flows blissfully slowly and it couldn’t be any more frustrating.

Jehan wraps his bare legs around Courfeyrac’s waist first, with the ease that his floral pyjama shorts grant him with, in contrast with Courfeyrac’s own impossibly tight yellow capris that he thought make him look like a sunflower but a posteriori seem like a bad, bad idea.

Jehan doesn’t kiss him and Courfeyrac thinks he will die but the next thing that the other man does is press their chests together and hold him suffocatingly tight. It’s the safest place that Courfeyrac has ever found himself in yet nothing makes sense, not the fact that his insides are threatening to explode all over his striped boatneck shirt, not the fear of ever being parted from this intoxicating scent of gardenia and hibiscus, even for a second.

Jehan has just come out of the bathroom and even the bony angles of his knees and shoulder blades pressing against Courfeyrac’s skin feel somehow softer. His hair is loose and drying, wet between his fingers and dripping tantalizingly slowly on his ankles. “I can almost smell the sun. I never want to sleep again,” Jehan breathes upon his lips and Courfeyrac melts until he’s water himself, dripping from Jehan’s auburn locks. “Don’t you ever let me sleep again.”

“For you it’s either sleep is for the weak, waiting for the corps to get out of their graves,” Courfeyrac muses, smiling blissfully, his green eyes always wide open to stare into the dark iridescent hues of Jehan’s, “or sleeping for a week, or maybe three.”

He receives a light punch on the ribs – and he’s glad to be still surviving because Bahorel learnt what Jehan means by ‘light punch’ the previous week. It wasn’t nice. Joly almost cried. “Fuck you,” croons Jehan merrily.

“With pleasure,” hums Courfeyrac and they both sit there breathless for a while, nose touching nose, lips being parted from lips but with a single breath. And then they’re kissing, tongues dancing passionately together, exploring every corner of each other’s mouth and trying to taste all of them. Courfeyrac sighs against Jehan’s lips, the poet’s tongue sloppily now moving on his jawline as Courfeyrac kisses his cheekbones and eyelids and Jehan shudders in his arms, swallowing every breath that falls from his lips. There is a contented hum from the back of Jehan’s throat and Courfeyrac breaks the kiss, breathing raggedly as he moves lower to press his lips on the man’s pulse point, tracing his tongue over the smooth skin of his throat and grazing his teeth in the creamy flesh ever so softly, sucking spots that will look plum bruised tonight.

Jehan throws his head back, exposing the graceful curve of his throat and Courfeyrac wants him, he's wanted him for centuries. “I vow'd that I – I would dedicate… _uh_ my powers,” Jehan sighs through pink parted lips, his voice deep, hoarse and mellow. “To thee and _thine_ _…_ have I not – kept the vow?” Courfeyrac raises his eyes, mesmerized and meets Jehan’s shimmering gaze. “Sorry,” the poet murmurs but Courfeyrac silences him with a fervent kiss before pulling back again only to press his lips back on Jehan’s neck and tug on his t-shirt.

“Don’t stop,” Courfeyrac breathes huskily as they pull their shirts over their shoulders and fumble with buttons and zippers. He presses his hand in the middle of Jehan’s pale, pounding chest, pushing him back against the mattress. He takes a moment to savor the perfection of the man lying beneath him, throwing his arms back on the pillow before Courfeyrac stretches over his shoulders, pressing tender kisses on the sensitive, transparent skin on the curve of Jehan’s wrists.

“With – _oh_ – beating heart and – streaming _eyes_ now,” Courfeyrac traces his tongue down the length of Jehan’s forearms, before resting his chin briefly on his chest just to glimpse again at the splendour that is Jehan’s drying hair spread on the pillow, to feel jealous of the sun that dares to kiss it so shamelessly through the window and capture Jehan’s body in his embrace, the sweet valley of his rising and falling stomach upon which Courfeyrac trails an abundance on kisses. “I call the phantoms of a thousand hours… Each from his voiceless grave…”

Jehan is almost naked beneath his weight and Courfeyrac’s breath catches on his throat because that stunningly cruel nymph of a man is wearing _lingerie,_ pale yellow and pink and lilac lace and chiffon hugging the flesh of his glorious, round creamy ass. “Jean Prouvaire you’re fucking _evil_ ,” Courfeyrac moans, tracing his trembling thumb over the hem of the lace but Jehan is already rolled on his side with his hand over Courfeyrac’s heart, pressing him on his back against the mattress. And just on the next moment Jehan’s burning lips are all over him, his tongue writing sonnets on his aching skin, breathing never ending stanzas on his chest and sides, sighing metonyms and stroking similes inside of him, causing Courfeyrac to whimper as a shiver vibrates though him and arches his spine on the bed. “Each from his voiceless grave,” he hums, sinister and stunning and more natural than breathing, in a muffled voice on Courfeyrac’s skin and the brunet throws his head back on the pillow, flinching beneath Jehan’s warm tongue, “they have in vision’d bowers…”

“Oh _Jehan,_ ” he feels a small moan escaping the back of his throat, need pooling painfully on the pit of his stomach and causing blood to pound ferociously in his veins, his whole being to throb with anticipation, “is this about me,” he chimes, mock-offended, “or is it some kind of poetic fucking _ecstasy_ where muses make you horny?”

All that Jehan does is raise his eyes and look with a fiery glint that looks as if it’s captured the secrets of the universe, seductive and painful and Courfeyrac thinks he’s going to explode. “Of studious zeal or love’s delight,” the man smiles, ever so slightly, before lowering his head again and tracing his tongue over the fabric of Courfeyrac’s briefs, causing him to gasp and shut his eyes tightly, every fiber of his being begging for more as Jehan slowly lowers the hemline and pulls him out with a dangerous brightness in his eyes that could outshine the Sun and all the horses of his chariot. Courfeyrac is ready to beg in desperation as Jehan’s eyes take him all in, but just then the man lowers his head and wraps his lips around his throbbing erection, taking him in the warm, perfect tightness of his mouth.

All that Courfeyrac can do is let a choked cry fall from his lips before sighing deeply, trying to control his erratic breathing. Jehan is impossibly skilled, he’s simply _breathtaking,_ an angel from the heaven above breathing the sweetest hell on Courfeyrac’s skin, a pounding flame burning all through him as he tastes and sucks ever so tantalizingly and _God_ how is Courfeyrac going to survive this? His whole body feels ready to explode and he’s dizzy, the room is blurred and all that he can feel is the perfect warmth on his feverish skin and the soft vibrations of Jehan’s sinful humming on his cock. His auburn hair is almost fully dry, half covering the glorious watercolor cherry blossom tattoo on his tanned back, branches and petals travelling down on the swan-like curve of his spine and spreading on the round perfection of his ass that would make Phidias cry tears of marble. Courfeyrac’s fingers card through his locks and tug desperately, arching his back and unconsciously thrusting deeper in his mouth. In response, Jehan traces his long nails on Courfeyrac’s balls and Courfeyrac sees the sky and all the fucking stars.

“Oh Jeha- _a-an!_ ” he cries, before tugging on the man’s hair almost violently. “Stop I-I _’m gonna…_ ”

Jehan pulls away and slowly traces his tongues over his lips, swallowing his satisfaction. “Outwatch'd with me the envious night, they know that – _oh!_ ”

Courfeyrac already has him in his hand from inside the sheer lace of his underwear, hard and thick and pumping as he starts stroking him deftly and Jehan _moans,_ the most sacred and damned melody, his eyelids sliding shut and Courfeyrac doesn’t stop stroking him as he lowers his head and tastes the nectar of sweat from his prominent hipbones, his pale thighs and the silky cords on the back of his knees. “Oh Courf,” he moans, “fuck _please_!”

“What is it, flower, Courfeyrac breathes, tightening the grip of his fist around his pulsating skin. “What do you need?”

“You,” pants Jehan, opening his eyes to stare at him with burning need. “I need – ah – _you…_ ”

Courfeyrac can hardly hold back a grin of excitement and mischief as he almost finds himself again, his heart trying to thrum its way out of his chest, his hands releasing Jehan and eliciting a pained whimper, stretching himself over the bed and fumbling in the drawer near the bed until he finds the lube and a pack of condoms. Jehan’s chest is rising and falling agonizingly with each erratic breath, his arm is thrown over his head and his hair spread like a fiery halo on the pillow. Courfeyrac could stare at him forever if every fiber of his existence wasn’t aching to touch him, to kiss all every soft petal as it would open and be pierced by every sharp thorn until they could no longer part, not ever.

He squirts some lube on his fingers and rubs them together before gently placing his palms on Jehan’s bent knees and parting them, holding his breath at the sacred sight of his angelic body like out of a Pre-Raphaelite painting spread before him. “God Jehan you’re beautiful,” he exhales, mesmerized.

“They know that – never joy illum’d… my brow…” is the man’s only response, now labored, almost incoherent, “unlink’d with hope… that thou wouldst _free_ …”

Courfeyrac allows his eyelids to slide shut just for blissful a second as his hands touch Jehan with a kind of sacred devotion he’d never felt before, never for nothing. His fingers tease him ever so subtly and he feels Jehan’s skin writhe and quiver beneath him before he slides inside of him, desperate groans leaving his lips.

He bends closer to him, covering him with his body and tracing featherweight kisses over every star on Jehan’s shoulders. Courfeyrac is shaking all over as he works him open, taking a second to imagine every sensation, to feel himself inside of the other’s body without it even happening yet. “You’re perfect,” he murmurs as Jehan twitches and jerks himself against his knuckles without a rhythm.

“You – inside me…” he heaves against the air of the room, “oh _Courf_ please!”

“What, my flower?” Courfeyrac smiles on Jehan’s damp skin. “I will do _anything_... You only need to ask.”

“Take me, fu- _u-uck Courfeyrac!”_

The dark haired man has to try hard to contain himself from the desire threatening to tear him apart, to make him pin Jehan’s wrists on the pillow and fuck him hard into the mattress. He takes his time to feel him loosen and relax, he kisses him until his moans are those of intoxicated delight, and then he props himself on his knees, balancing on Jehan’s chest who doesn’t lose time from wrapping his lips around the head of his cock and taking him for the painfully short time of unwrapping the condom.

He climbs off his body and wraps his arms strongly around his lithe waist, maneuvering him upon the pillows. Jehan is already spread out for him, desire completely transforming his face in an utterly breathtaking painting and Courfeyrac can’t even believe he gets to have him, all of him for his _own,_ after all this time, holding Jehan so close and feeling all of him as he eases himself inside of him, eliciting a gasp that’s perfectly debauched as their bodies entwine and the world stops turning.

For a second they both tense at their place. Courfeyrac exhales shakily and starts moving gently inside of him, slowly picking up a pace. Jehan’s knees are pulled on his chest, his ankles wrapped around Courfeyrac’s neck, bringing their bodies closer than possible until Courfeyrac can feel his heartbeat entwine with Jehan’s in a symphony that had forever pounded in their ears, they’d just failed to wake up on time and hear it. Jehan is still holding his breath and for a moment there Courfeyrac is afraid because he’s motionless, breathing heavily with his eyelids and rose lips half parted. But then he wraps tightly around him as if he’s trying to shove their parted members back together. “Unlink’d with hope – that _thou wouldst – free_ …” he pants rhythmically as Courfeyrac slides out of him and then holds his hips and grinds him up against him. “This world… from its d _a_ rk… sl _avery_ that _…”_ t _he_ moan that escapes the poet’s chest burns all through Courfeyrac’s being so he keeps on moving inside him, as deep as he can still feel, tight and warm and _perfect_ until he’s dizzy and Paris is blurrily dancing around him, and Courfeyrac completely loses every hint of pace. Jehan’s nails are scraping his shoulders like thorns and Courfeyrac cries his name like a prayer, desperately thrusting inside of him as if the world is coming to an end in less than a breath and only by feeling each other deeper than themselves will they ever be saved.

Jehan looks dizzy with overstimulation, on the verge of hyperventilating. His cheeks are flushed bright red, his eyes are begging for release. He presses their pounding bodies together before his lips clasp incoherently with Courfeyrac’s and he gasps against the kiss. “ _Th – thou_ , Oh awful LOVELI – _ah – ness_ _wouldst_ _…”_ Courfeyrac’s limbs are shaking, his world is going blurry. He’s in heaven or maybe in hell but nowhere in between, he can’t be on Earth and he’s too light for the sky, it doesn’t matter because it’s _them_ and nothing else, holding tight on each other and moving in unison before Jehan is screaming his name and he’s collapsing atop of him, filling him up until they’re a limp, numb and incorrigible mass of limbs upon the damp sheets.

They never stop holding each other only it’s gentler now, much less desperate and suffocating, safe and peaceful and _free,_ arms wrapped limply around each other’s chest as their breathing slowly evens out and they lazily kiss the sweat off of each other’s skin.

“You good?” murmurs Courfeyrac, resting their foreheads together as Jehan slowly opens his eyes with a serene smile on his face.

“Give whate’er these words cannot express,” he exhales. “Never, ever been better.” His lips brush together, soft like feathers that twirl in the sky. “You’re perfect,” Jehan sighs.

“Flattery won’t get you anywhere,” smirks Courfeyrac blissfully before pressing his lips on Jehan’s forehead and inhaling his sweet scent of intimacy. “I love you.”

He doesn’t notice himself doing so, he can’t tell how it happens at all. It’s not that he hasn’t said it before. He has, and he has always meant it. Contrary to popular belief Courfeyrac is more than a Casanova extraordinaire, but no one has ever elevated his soul in a way that makes flying feel so safe like Jean Prouvaire does, wrapped naked and warm around him. He freezes for a moment there but then he relaxes because he’s never felt more sure of himself, he’s never felt more _free_ for uttering three simple tiny words.

“Please, Courfeyrac,” Jehan mutters in a small voice but Courfeyrac is hardly listening because the world is smiling around him.

“I love you Jehan,” he whispers as passionately as one can whisper, “I really do.”

But Jehan has gone eerily quiet and Courfeyrac is suddenly scared. “Please Courf,” he murmurs, “don’t do this.”

The smile freezes on his lips. “What? What shouldn’t I do?”

“Nothing,” his voice is so small and Courfeyrac’s heart is now feeling ready to crack his ribs open because this isn’t what he expected. “It’s just… it’s beautiful. Let’s be quiet for a while.”

“No, Jehan, I won’t be quiet,” Courfeyrac’s hand comes to cup the poet’s beautiful face tenderly though his voice is not free of passion. “This isn’t a poem or a pretty picture, this is real, this is _us…”_

“I know,” the man murmurs, his fingers tracing softly over Courfeyrac’s cheekbone. “But this can’t…”

“What?” Courfeyrac interrupts him anxiously. “This can’t be a thing? Why?”

Jehan’s voice should be louder, stronger like it always is. This is wrong and Courfeyrac feels an uncomfortable lump on his throat. “I don’t want you to have to cope with this.”

“Nonsense,” shrugs Courfeyrac. “What is there to cope with? I want _you_!”

“You have me. Now you have me. Let’s not do this now, okay?”

“But…”

Jehan’s lips are silencing his own and Courfeyrac exhaustedly leans into the kiss. Strong arms wrap around him and cradle his head. Soon, the room falls dark.

*

Sometimes it really just feels funny, something to laugh at. He’s learned to laugh, if something, and that’s something he’ll always feel proud of, the way his friends’ expressions morph in enthusiasm every time he says a joke or makes a silly face without even trying, the way Grantaire’s shadowed expression lights up when they drink together, the adoration and excitement his giggles always bring on Bossuet’s beloved face and Musichetta’s beautiful, playful grins and sneaky tickles as she joins in their game. Joly laughs, that’s what he simply does and most of the time it’s easier, more natural than breathing.

Some other times, however, breathing itself is not granted to be as easy. He’s not suffering from asthma, that’s what he’ll always tiredly reply to people because it’s the actual truth. Joly is hardly ever suffering from anything, apart maybe from a bad knee and his own self.

He’s repeatedly tried to convince himself that it isn’t his own fault, it’s not something he can control, not something he’d ever bargained for or subconsciously embraced. He’s tried to persuade himself that he’s not an attention seeking drama queen as people have called him several times in the past. For a while he even managed to maintain the upper hand over his hypochondria and control himself, be genuinely happy, live normally for a month or two (maybe not in a row, but that’s not the problem). He believed that after actually starting to study medicine everything would clear up, everything would start making some sort of sense. He’d actually _know_ stuff therefore he wouldn’t have to worry to the point of cramping his muscles and hyperventilating until he’d collapse with no apparent reason. He couldn’t have been any more mistaken.

“It’s normal when you study and experience all those horrible symptoms and diseases all day long,” Combeferre has always said with the same, serious and reservedly kind expression. “There’s nothing to feel bad for, you’re human, we all are.” But Joly knows it’s not the same. He knows that never happens to Combeferre, or any of the others. He’s seen a colleague or a classmate feel faint at the sight of blood, at least in the beginning, or maybe near a corpse in anatomy lessons but that’s not the same. He knows for a fact that they don’t wake up every day feeling their glands, examining their on the mirror and probing in their own skin, or making themselves sick after realizing they’ve eaten unwashed cherries.

His friends know and his friends tolerate him as he is, that’s really important but that’s not _enough_ and that isn’t going to make him feel better any time soon. His skin will always start pulling tightly, itching and feeling warmer, his pulse will always feel a bit off and his knee will never stop hurting. And sometimes it might get even worse because Bahorel will tease him good-heartedly about touching something unsanitary and he won’t even bother to explain that he’s _not_ afraid of germs because there is no reason to make his friends feel bad, he’ll just laugh along. Sometimes Courfeyrac will roll his eyes at his subtly taking his own pulse and then he’ll feel ashamed and quiet himself even though it isn’t like himself to be _quiet_ or _self-conscious_ , though next time he’ll remember to take good care and pretend he’s actually scratching his neck while in reality he’ll be counting in concentration.

He wakes up that morning and tries to clear his throat and swallow the scratching that’s there but in vain. He can feel it coming again and he already knows he’s fucked up, this is going to be a bad day unless he decides right _now_ to put an end in it all.

It’s all in his mind, he knows it is, Musichetta has told him numerous times and always meaning well, never tired or bored. She’ll just take her time and comfort him until he faithfully repeats that nothing is wrong, he’s just imagining it all. His skin might feel a bit warmer but not worryingly so, his breath might catch on his throat but Bossuet will always remind him that his anxiety causes all that, Combeferre and several doctors have confirmed it again and again in the past. Bossuet’s look is slightly concerned but he soon returns to his cheerful self and Musichetta is already late for her trip. Joly drops her to the train station, clearing his throat every other minute on the way. She raises an uncertain eyebrow. “Are you sure you’ll be alright if I spend the day at the banlieue?”

“Of course,” he smiles against her lips, his hands resting on her hips before she gets into the train. His tongue feels paralyzed while he kisses her and, when their lips part, he stifles a small cough.

Bossuet is waiting back home for him with a king size breakfast on the kitchen table and Joly would be feeling insanely proud that his boyfriend didn’t blow the kitchen up and the casualties stayed to a broken plate if his cheeks didn’t feel prickly and his head heavy and uncomfortable. He wishes he could eat more but his throat seems blocked and Bossuet doesn't look hurt, he never would. He just downs his scrambled eggs too and attacks the Nutella bucket, mischief written all over his adorable face. “Care to _share_?” he grins widely, cornering him from behind and wrapping his arms around his waist, nuzzling seductively on the crook of Joly’s neck.

“Not now, baby,” Joly turns him down softly. “I’m not quite feeling myself today.”

Bossuet frowns, not with annoyance but with sympathy. “Is it about your last anatomy test?”

Joly hesitates. “Partly, yes. It’s also the protest permit.”

“Don’t worry about that you perfect human being you,” Bossuet presses a kiss on his neck, his lips feel cool and comforting and Joly wishes he’d stay there forever. “That’s Bahorel’s field, he and Enjolras are going to bully some state people in it.” Joly chuckles half-heartedly. “As for your grades, I’m sure they’ll come out soon and they’ll be great as always!” He makes a pause. “Are you sure you don’t want me to stay here today?”

“No, no,” Joly brushes him off, trying to look radiant and cheerful, smacking Bossuet’s butt lightly. “You should go, I might drop by the boys later to take those Law notes for you from Enjolras.”

“You realize the paradox in this sentence.” Bossuet laughs pitifully. “Are you sure you’ll be fine?”

“I’ll be _fine,”_ Joly snorts, making his throat feel raw and his heart rate to pick up before he presses a kiss on Bossuet’s bald forehead. “See you tonight.”

“I love you,” Bossuet turns around to walk out of the door of the apartment with a bright smile on his face.

“And I, you.”

When the door slams behind him Joly collapses on the sofa and exhales with difficulty. It’s impossible to fight it back. He can feel it growing on him, crippling sneakily under his skin and murdering him slowly from inside out. His chest is tighter with every thought that he makes, his stomach curled up and he realizes he’s breathing with difficulty. His head feels heavy and throbs with every movement. His fingers shakily reach for his neck. It’s all swollen.

Anyone who didn’t know him would assume that, in the way he lets that happen to himself all the fucking time he has no sense of self-preservation though Joly knows that’s not true. Even though all his limbs can support him for at the moment is collapsing on bed and shaking there until his partners will be back in the evening or until the apocalypse arrives, he knows that will be even worse, _much_ worse, so he forces himself to stand up and make his way to the car, breathing deeply and counting each inhale in the way he’s learnt to do.

Driving at his friends’ building always soothes him and he knows Bossuet really needs these notes even though he pretends he’ll never study them at all. It goes well yet his head never stops pounding during the rest of the journey.

It’s Enjolras who greets him at the door, a small half-meeting going on in their apartment at that very moment. “Well come in, we’ve been waiting for you,” he nods curtly and steps back but Joly isn’t sure whether he can really do that right now.

His eyes dizzily scan the rest of the room. It’s not all of them. Just Feuilly, Bahorel, Combeferre, Marius and a glowing Courfeyrac.

“About those notes…” he murmurs as he walks into the living room, not really bothering to take a seat.

“Yes, yes, I’ll give you the notes. Right now though we have a problem.”

“What problem?” Joly asks, and his own voice comes out so faint that is scares him. Ever since Bossuet left he hasn’t stopped coughing and now a fit comes uninvited to shake his body. The voices stop in the room and he hates the noise that occurs. He can feel six pairs of eyes fixed on him and they add another weight on his head.

“The permit,” Enjolras huffs, fumbling in some notes that definitely have nothing to do with Law classes more than they do with overthrowing the state. It’s one of those days when Enjolras is way too caught up with his revolutionary fervor to be able to engage with anything else, though Joly can feel Combeferre’s eyes burning on him, as if his skin can feel any hotter. The bespectacled man eventually takes his gaze away from him and turns to his childhood friend.

“Enjolras, we can’t possibly proceed without exhausting all of our chances first, we’ll have problems with the police again and that’s the last thing we can afford for the…”

“Ferre don’t you _see_ what’s happening? Time is pressing on our fucking chests!”

Something entirely different is pressing on Joly’s chest at the moment and he tries hard to breathe without hacking up a lung but his throat is aching and his head is spinning, the terrifying, harsh sound of his cough causes his hands to go numb and his knees to wobble. He doesn’t even notice when Combeferre stands up and pulls a chair behind him.

“Hey, you okay?” Marius frowns slightly and his friends turn again to look at his direction.

“Fine,” Joly forces a smile that freezes on his face and chokes back another cough.

“So as I was saying that I thought you _understood_ the severity…”

“I do understand the severity of the situation but I also do think we need to take our measures and think it more thoroughly, especially now that we’re taking more organizations and syndicats…”

Courfeyrac stands up, the passionate flames they’ve all been accustomed to burning in his eyes. “Now what the fuck can we do, Ferre? You never seemed to have problem with…”

“That was _before_ we had to give all of our savings for the cause to bail our sorry asses out of jail the last time and earning a _reputation_ at this vital point of our cause…”

His ears are buzzing and he can’t focus anymore on his friends’ heated conversation, he feels a hand friendly smacking his back. “Hey Jolllly, don’t die today!”

Bahorel.

It’s a joke, a well meant one at that, but Joly’s chest is feeling tighter and tighter until he’s bent in two, coughing violently, his whole being ready to explode with pain, the room spinning before his eyes.

“Somebody bring him some water? Can we proceed?” he hears Enjolras’ impatient voice and he doesn’t blame him, he knows how Enjolras can get at those days…

“Joly can you stand up?”

“You need to relax, stop thinking about it…”

It’s a mayhem of voices in his throbbing head, Courfeyrac means well, he thinks he’s helping and Joly is ashamed, so ashamed, his eyes teary and he’s dying because his heart, God _his heart_ is racing madly against his ribs, his lungs trying to burst out of his mouth and he can’t breathe…

“Come on, hold on me…” A mellow yet strenuous voice. Combeferre.

“Joly are you okay?” Enjolras. Great, just _perfect,_ now he’s worried Enjolras too.

Strong arms wrap around him and he shakily clings on the soft fabric of his friend’s shirt. They find themselves in the bathroom and the first thing he does is press his forehead against the cold piles, trying not to cough his lungs out…

It’s empty in here, quiet. He can hear his friends’ worried, muffled whispers from the living room but he can’t deal with them right now, his skull is threatening to burst open. Combeferre helps him sit on the toilet seat, a cool, comforting hand pressed against his forehead.

“You’re burning up,” Combeferre’s voice is alarmed and makes his chest even tighter, his blood pumping madly against his meninges. _This can’t be happening._ “And you’re panicking.” _Panicking. That will raise his temperature. His heart..._ “Hold on me, try to calm down.”

He tugs on cool hands and Combeferre gently kneads his palm and fingers until he can feel blood flowing in them again. Everything’s in vain. He can’t breathe simply because he’s coughing and _choking_ so Combeferre leaves his hands and returns with a glass of cool water against his lips that he helps him sip slowly. Hands return on his forehead, probing gently on his neck. “You’re sick,” Combeferre mutters and it hits him like a punch in the stomach. “You have a fever, and how long have you been having that cough?”

“Only since this morning,” Joly wheezes painfully, clutching on his ribs and eventually collapsing wearily with his head on Combeferre’s shoulder.

“Have you seen anyone about it?” his friend’s fingers are gently massaging his temple, they’re wonderfully cool against his skin and he’s already feeling calmer. “It sounds pretty nasty.”

Joly’s first words come out with ugly, teary sobs and he hates himself for everything because _he let himself get sick. He ridiculed himself. He’s weak, so weak and he’s not well…_ “I… I called my supervisor yesterday… I was feeling a bit funny…” He takes a painful breath and coughs again. “He looked me over like two weeks ago because my spring allergies… uh they’d gotten bad… So he told me to calm down,” a sob, “and focus on my work... That I couldn’t go on my life living… like that.” He blows his nose on a tissue that Combeferre hands him. “Chetta and Bossuet are away today.”

Combeferre frowns, feeling angry towards everything and everyone. He’s a man known for his temper but now he has every reason to be furious, at the abominable way a medical professional twice his age is handling a person with hypochondria who’s _actually sick_ now, with Enjolras and Courfeyrac even though neither would ever mean any harm, with his own self for not noticing, with all of them who hardly ever paid Joly the attention he needed.

“You’re going to lie down until the others are back home, okay?” he says unusually softly, helping Joly support his weight on him breathlessly.

“I don’t want to be a burden…”

Combeferre snorts. “Don’t be ridiculous. The boys will be glad to have you and you’ll worry us all if you leave. Now,” he helps him stand up on his shaky legs. “I’m going to look you over, yes?” _If grown up professionals can’t do their job, someone has to,_ he thinks bitterly.

Joly pales, feverish cheeks going the color of the parchment. Contrary to popular belief, actually having himself examined isn’t a hobby, isn’t even a _comfort._ Every tiny thing, every second that passes is agony, worst case scenarios twirling in his head and making him come to a halt though there’s always more and it never stops.

He allows his friend to lead him to a comfortable bed and bring him a thermometer that he slides under his tongue. Combeferre shoots him another brief, worried look before disappearing in the living room for a while.

“Don’t you ever do that again,” he hisses at his frozen friends, half violently blushed and the others death pale. “Just keep your damned patience around him.”

“Is he okay?” He almost feels sorry for the worry engraved on Enjolras’ face because he knows how much he really does care for his friends when his stress for the cause isn’t blinding him. Courfeyrac is bright red like a child scolded by his mother and he looks positively ashamed.

“I don’t know, he’s sick,” he immediately regrets the way he phrases it and quickly rushes to alter his words. “Don’t worry, it probably isn’t serious, I’ll just keep him here until his fever drops.”

“Merde,” breathes Bahorel.

“If there’s anything we can do…” murmurs Enjolras guiltily.

Combeferre heaves a sigh and smiles wearily. “Don’t worry, keep up with the work.”

“Should we go keep him company?”

“Let him rest for now, I’ll call Musichetta and Bossuet to come pick him up when they’re back in Paris.”

The level of mercury on the thermometer makes him frown. Joly is coughing and shaking so much from the chills while Combeferre gives him a check up, mostly to soothe the anxious thrumming of his heart.

His hand squeezes his friend's shoulder softly. “It’s alright, everything’s alright, please relax,” he mutters comfortingly. “Here, you won’t die spitting blood,” he smiles in a way that only Combeferre can make that sound comforting and right. He pulls him in his arms and rubs his back in soothing, circular motions, feeling Joly relax against him. “It’s just the flu, maybe on the bouts of a chest infection but I’m going to get you an antibiotics prescription and you’ll be fine in no time.” He pulls away, eyeing him seriously. “Never hide anything again,” he says, “one Enjolras is already enough.” He holds his friend’s clammy hands in his own as Joly stifles a small cough that turns into a chuckle.

“I can’t keep calling you for every exaggeration that passes through my stupid head,” Joly smiles tiredly, taking the pills from Combeferre’s hands and lying back against the pillows.

“You’re not stupid,” Combeferre says seriously, “you’re brilliant and you’re going to make one hell of a doctor, just focus on taking care of yourself because you’re important to all of us.” And with that, an uncharacteristically affectionate Combeferre leans forward to press a kiss on Joly’s forehead.

When he wakes up a couple of hours later he has cooled off and he fills his system with as many lozenges as possible to soothe his throat. His friends bundle up on the bed and play Scrabble until a horrified Bossuet bursts into the room with Musichetta looking on the verge of tears. She wraps her arms around him and pulls his lanky figure against her chest. “If we ever ignore you again punch us in the face,” she growls while Bossuet hisses at him that he’s fucking stupid and then pulls him in a suffocating hug until he almost chokes him.

“Both your faces are just too pretty for that,” Joly whines in a hoarse, almost cheerful voice.

Bossuet pets Joly’s hair on the back seat while Musichetta’s driving back home, singing along to The Sound of Music. The three of them collapse exhausted on their newly acquired giant bed despite Joly’s half-hearted whimpers that they’ll catch the flu.

His illness runs its circle and medicine helps to diffuse the wet weight from his lungs but Joly insists it’s the good care they take of him, the silly rom-coms and the eternal warm bubblebaths, not to mention his bed facing the North and the Vicks Vaporub that he puts on his feet every night. Nevertheless, it takes less than two days for him to feel better.

When his lungs feel clean and he can hardly hide his hyperactivity and cheer anymore – to the point that he gets bored and hysterically giggles the day away watching Disney channel – he bundles himself up in sweaters ignoring Musichetta’s moans about him actually getting a heat stroke. They spend the afternoon at the Marché aux Puces de Saint-Ouen with their precious Café Crèmes in hand. They consider returning home with a brand new 200 year old wardrobe -heavily consisting by corseterie and waistcoats-, fall in and out of love with approximately fourteen pairs of shoes, two stuffed -Bossuet swears they're life-size but they really are not- elephants and a horrifying wooden owl at Marché Malassis, and buy Musichetta a dozen of beautiful wooden bracelets. Then they selfie with thrice the enthusiasm of a tourist at Marché Dauphine, sitting on ancient smelly beds with the stuffing peeking out and spider-eaten tacky curtains and tapestries that would make Jehan swoon. It truly is a fairytale, all the toys and clothes and tiny antiques that serve no purpose in this world than make big babies such as Musichetta and Joly cry out loud in bliss. There is a fascinating shop specifically full with mirrors and Art Deco clocks that would make Feuilly lose his shit. Joly gets teary-eyed when he remembers of his childhood, finding themselves amidst an ocean of divine old porcelain dolls, now raggy and emitting the odour of the ancient shelves around them, begging to be carried into a home again.  

Joly is precious and perfect therefore he naturally falls asleep with his head on Musichetta’s knees as soon as they enter the metro in the Clignancourt station and Bossuet practically carries him up the apartment where the three of them curl into the full bathtub again and spoil themselves until the whole apartment smells obscenely of lavender and promiscuity.

Cat has probably already had too much for a lifetime.

*

_Here, beneath my lungs, I feel your thumbs press into my skin again_

**[francebeforepants, 18:46]** Is that what you call real music?

 **[R, 18:46]** is that what u call freedom u giant snob

 **[R, 18:47]** btw ur username rly?

 **[francebeforepants, 18:47]** Courfeyrac

 **[francebeforepants, 18:47]** Courfeyrac hacked my account

 **[R, 18:48]** dishonor on him

 **[R, 18:48]** dishonor on his barricade

 **[francebeforepants, 18:48]**...

**_francebeforepants is trying to share John Lennon – Give Peace a Chance_ **

**[R, 18:49]** is that a pun?

 **[R, 18:49]** bc u know ur rly bad at those

 **[R, 18:50]** u know about the john lennon syndrome right?

 **[francebeforepants, 18:50]** You can’t judge the messages in an artist’s work by his shit personality

 **[R, 18:51]** and you can't judge a dude who abandons his child for writing about education

 ** **[francebeforepants, 18:51]****  Don't you dare diminish Rousseau to that

 **[R, 18:51]** don't get your knickers in a twist

 **[R, 18:51]** am I gonna talk art w/u?

 **[R, 18:51]** bc I’m too sober for that

 **[francebeforepants, 18:52]** Actually yes I really wanted to discuss art and its purposes and you probably know more than the rest of us together.

 **[francebeforepants, 18:52]** You’re sober I am surprised.

 **[R, 18:52]** cool we could discuss the marxist approach or the misogynistic castration freudian one

 **[R, 18:52]** or I could just talk to you of art pour l’art and watch your face turn all the 50 shades of swelling rage

**_R is trying to share The Beatles – Hey Jude_ **

**[francebeforepants, 18:53]** Don’t you think it’s quite overrated?

 **[R, 18:53]** u sure ur human

 **[R, 18:53]** right of course ur not

 **[francebeforepants, 18:54]** What

 **[francebeforepants, 18:54]** What was that?

 **[francebeforepants, 18:55]** Did you hear that noise?

 **[R, 18:55]** inevitably

 **[francebeforepants, 18:55]** What was that noise?

 **[R, 18:56]** …

 **[R, 18:56]** it has to be me hasn’t it

 **[R, 18:56]** u see enjolras when it’s spring and the bees fly to the little flowers

 **[francebeforepants, 18:56]** Grantaire is Courfeyrac at your apartment?

 **[francebeforepants, 18:57]** Is Jehan at your apartment?

 **[R, 18:57]** …

 **[R, 18:57]** apollo it  _is_ jehan's apartment

 **[francebeforepants, 18:57]** Oh

 **[R, 18:57]** oh

 **[francebeforepants, 18:58]** So can I erase my memory with hair bleach?

 **[R, 18:58]** do u dye ur hair

 **[R, 18:58]** this is important do u dye ur hair

 **[francebeforepants, 18:58]** Of course not don’t be ridiculous

 **[francebeforepants, 18:59]** Bossuet was here the other day

 **[R, 18:59]** apollo bossuet has no hair

 **[francebeforepants, 18:59]** Don’t ask

 **[R, 18:59]** trust me I won’t

 **[R, 18:59]** jehan has some hair bleach left but I’m obvs not going in there

 **[francebeforepants, 19:00]** Be my guest then

 **[francebeforepants, 19:00]** …

 **[R, 19:00]** …

 **[R, 19:01]** ur friend knows what he’s doing doesn’t he

 **[francebeforepants, 20:01]** Fuck you Grantaire I’m already scarred for life.

 **[R, 19:01]** not my division ur friend’s just noisy

 **[francebeforepants, 19:02]** Your friend is noisy.

Grantaire grimaces at the debauched muffled moaning sound that comes from Jehan’s room and is enough to demoralize all the little fluffy yellow chicks Bahorel won at a bet the other day and make him want to stick several chopsticks in his ears. His eyes don’t leave the computer screen, not for a single moment, as if the ridiculous name that flashes on and off with that small bleeping sound that makes his heart skip several beats is but a dream, a heavenly vision and will disappear if Grantaire believes for a second that he’s chatting with Enjolras online, that he can almost hear the tapping of the other man’s delicate fingers on the keyboard through the thin wall, that he can almost see him roll his eyes at the computer every time Grantaire types his own reply

_that he can maybe see him smile_

He quickly brushes that poisonous thought away because he won’t dare such absurdities invade into his mind, he said he was too sober for that and even though Enjolras was aghast at the revelation it was actually true, Grantaire isn’t drunk enough to deal with the agonizing race in his chest every time he hears Enjolras rhythmically tapping his foot on the creaking wooden floor just a breath away from him, two computer screens separating them ever so cruelly and somehow managing to make the distance of the few bricks between them even more painful.

 **[francebeforepants, 19:04]** Meet me at the fire escape?

Perfect. Spectacular. He really wanted his stomach to get all twisted up again, absolutely disgusting because he’d always detested sappiness and now he’s just one step before swooning in the middle of his room and leaving back the remainders of his long lost melted dignity and a disturbing chorus of his internal choking sounds.

Because Enjolras. Is inviting him. To the fire escape. As if they’ve been best buddies since forever or as if hanging out together is something perfectly normal for Enjolras, precisely as downing three mugs of coffee in half an hour.

He finds himself struggling in front of the bathroom mirror, dragging a dirty pair of boxer shorts and a wet towel both of which are pooled on his ankles, as if there’s anything he can actually save. He swears under his breath and splashes some water on his face, tossing his wet wild hair around like a dog. He swears again and decides he’s a lost cause. He’s gone completely out of his mind, so he just slumps his shoulders and bursts out at the staircase leading to the fire escape, particularly eager to get as far as possible from Jehan and Courfeyrac’s utterly disturbing sounds.

Enjolras is already there, sitting with his back against the wall in those ridiculous blue leggings again that make Grantaire step back and mentally punch himself to prevent the upcoming drooling. He’s wearing a red baggy t-shirt that reaches his mid-thighs and is balancing his laptop on them. Hey Jude is coming silently from the computer and Grantaire’s heart skips a beat but it’s quite alright, he’ll die young, he’s gotten used to the idea that their fearless leader is trying his hardest to kill him so that their revolution will get rid of his drunken nuisance. There is nothing else that Enjolras can possibly be striving to do, with his white tennis shoes tapping rhythmically on the piles, his cheeks rosy and his golden locks shining at the reflection of the setting sun. It’s Grantaire’s best and worst hour, everything feels unreal in the twilight, almost expressionist. It’s like he’s high, between sleep and reality, if Enjolras wasn’t here he’d probably try to poke the clouds with his finger and annoy them out of their humid slumber. They’re pink and orange, like flames on the sky, sleepy marshmallow fucking flames, and Grantaire is sure it’s going to pour lemonade.

“Hey,” Enjolras nods, grumpy like Maenad, obviously scarred for life after their friends’ kind contribution to his sex education. “It’s going to rain.”

Grantaire sits on the floor next to him, trying to hide a pathetically smitten smile as he slips a cigarette out of the pocket of his boxers and lighting it between his fingers. He takes a long drag and shuts his eyes, resting his wrists on his bent bare knees. It feels good, the air of Paris in the evening, lazy, polluted with years of history, sewers, blood and expensive rococo knickers. “Why didn’t you come at Jehan’s poetry reading?” he eventually asks when he feels ready, not opening his eyes.

“I had a meeting with some organizations,” Enjolras turns to face him, frowning petulantly at the smoke that gets in his eyes and shoving it away with his hand. “He knew, I told him I’ll meet him tomorrow for knitting lessons.”

Grantaire snorts on his cigarette and dramatically pretends he’s choking. Enjolras is unimpressed to say the least, and does not lose the opportunity to pout. “What? You fucking knit yourself!”

“Of course, knitting is the best thing there is. Just… the fearsome Apollo… knitting mittens, it’s just… it’s too much for a poor guy to handle.”

“Combeferre is obsessed with finding me a hobby,” Enjolras snorts, his cheeks flushed so adorably that it should be banned by law. “He thinks I’ll burst with stress or something.”

“Well, you frail little dandelion,” murmurs Grantaire softly, “mama Combeferre knows best, doesn’t he?”

Enjolras pretends to glare at him but he’s actually smiling and the distorted grimace that occurs is quite a precious sight. “Don’t call him that, he hates it.”

“Right.” Grantaire nods solemnly, starting to whistle some ridiculous indie song with a lazy guitar strumming part that screams of hipsters on a drunk summer twilight and maybe that’s the exact reason why it feels so annoyingly fitting. Enjolras looks quite annoyed himself, to be honest, considering that he’s obviously working on something world-changing on his laptop but the danger of irritating their fearless leader had hardly ever posed him any limits before.

The worst thing about this hour is that everything feels stronger, the mellow colors of the sky are fucking intense and if he’s tired he’ll probably feel like a zombie, if he’s well he’ll feel energetic to the point of rambling for a week, if his head hurts then he’ll probably die and then the sounds, oh the sounds. He’ll focus on every little fucking thing like the traffic below their feet and a chirping nightingale, a cat meowing on the rooftop, the bickering children from the next building and the football match from Madame Hucheloup’s TV on the fourth floor. He can also hear Enjolras’ rhythmical breathing just an inch away from him and he can all the iridescent games the sun plays on his hair and, worst of all, he can smell now more than ever, the coconut shampoo and all that coffee which must be unsanitary and Grantaire wants to stop Enjolras and save him from all the bad of the world.

Including triple espressos and capitalism.

It’s all too much for Grantaire to take and he needs a drink, he always does and right now is no exception, plus he’s managed to stay shamefully sober for the _plupart_ _du jour_. He’s not going to allow this any longer, it’s quite abominable and he knows he needs to fix it right the fuck now.

He can practically feel Enjolras’ frown piercing his skin when he reaches for his flask and takes a greedy sip before finishing his smoke. He drinks some more, downs the whole thing just to have an excuse to not turn around and stare at the gorgeous angel from hell sitting right next to him yet he knows that those sapphire eyes don’t leave him alone.

“I hate you when you do that,” he murmurs and Grantaire shivers despite the strong drink that burns his chest, as if Enjolras has meant an entirely different thing than the painful actuality that he _does_ obviously hate him. “I simply hate you.”

Grantaire just drowns his drink and wipes a bitter smile from his lips with the back of his hand. “These are quite the news, Apollo,” he chuckles sarcastically. “Wouldn’t have crossed my mind.”

“What?” Enjolras asks, so alarmed as to place his laptop on the floor and turn completely around to face him. “What wouldn’t?”

“Your passionate disgust for my person.”

Enjolras sighs deeply and presses the bridges of his hands on his eyes as if he has a headache. For a moment there, Grantaire is just a tiny bit scared that he’s crossed some kind of limits but then he remembers that fuck limits and fuck it all. Enjolras finally looks up. “How many times should I repeat,” he says fiercely, “that I do not mean it that way. I don’t hate _you._ Your ridiculous habits, yes, that I do hate, and… and other things. But most of all I hate that you’re _so much more_ than that.”

Grantaire takes a moment to proceed that last piece of information but it isn’t enough because a thousand centuries still wouldn’t be enough, and he’d be rather willing to shut that insane hammering in his chest up but he doesn’t know how to prevent himself from feeling alive just for once, just for this technicolor orange and lilac moment, floating himself in the middle of the cotton clouds drunk out of his fucking mind with pretentious indie guitars playing in the distance and lifting him high and high and _breathe_ because he can’t, not now, don’t make him inhale something that’s not made of coconuts and tender _now_ ’s.

“I’m not,” he croaks stupidly. “I’m not more than that, there’s no need to try and…”

“You are,” Enjolras clasps his hand tightly and it’s like an electric shock penetrating his spine and freezing his back against the cool brick wall. “You are more, you are your art, you are _more_ than your art.” Grantaire is at loss. It isn’t that he hasn’t yet been used in his new friends’ passionate outbursts, let alone those driven by Enjolras’ fierce determination yet, for once in his life, he’s shocked and out of words. “I _want_ you to show me more of your art,” Enjolras continues, letting his hand drop limp and lifeless on his side as if he’s been stricken himself. “I _want_ you to let me in and share it with me but you don’t understand it and you just go on and ramble that I hate you.” He takes a deep, flustered breath. “Will you show me more?”

“I said no,” Grantaire just croaks pathetically.

“You didn’t, you never did say no.” Enjolras looks quite taken aback himself, and embarrassed with his own burstout and fumbles uncomfortably on the floor. “I was told about a project you need help with. Was it that you were painting when I found you the other day?”

“No,” Grantaire answers quickly, way too confused and unable to keep up with that pace and the pace of his own heart, trying to burst out of his ribcage.

“What were you painting then?”

“Jasmines,” is the first thing that falls from his dry lips and even drier throat, despite the aid of his long needed drink. “I was painting jasmines.”

That takes Enjolras by surprise so he sits back and frowns at the nonsensical revelation. “Jasmines?”

“Yes Apollo, fucking jasmines,” Grantaire hears himself blurting out this once, his whole body ready to melt into a pool of ridiculous sugary syrup, floating around in his band t-shirt, boxer shorts and combat boots because he doesn’t know what’s happening, it’s all too fast and way too unreal and he can’t really breathe. “Jasmines because their scent haunts me whenever I walk out of some patio, because I grew up running like a bee between them and the air smelt of sea at night, and my grandma was fat and smelt of bread and she was art herself, and dad would get his shit together and make my mother snap out of the borders of her eyebags and my sister was seven but she looked like a mature and wise fucking princess or a democratically elected leader in my eyes and we built tents with bedsheets where we spent the nights all near the jasmines.” Grantaire stops as if he’s been slapped on the face, feeling his head go light from the bouts of hyperventilation.

“I can’t do this,” he feels himself breathing on Enjolras’ skin, so close that he can see the tiny freckles on that perfect face, porcelain skin longing to be praised by all the poets and caressed for eternity, fluttering eyelids rosy and fair, waiting to be kissed by a summer evening a thousand million times. It’s that eerie point of the twilight that does not exist in paintings and in poems, only in dreams, when the sun has completely set and the sky is still the richest lilac, the first city lights starting to wake from their slumber on the city beneath them like dopey stars. They’re close, so close that their breaths mingle and their eyelashes almost flutter together and he’s going to die but he might already be dead, a fucking star or a jasmine petal flying in the lavender summer sky, like in the stories that his mother used to tell him when he was little. His voice is shaking but the rest of him is still, frozen like a statue on his spot because for once it’s not Enjolras made of marble no, Enjolras is breathing flesh whose warmth penetrates his soul with every swell, every deep rise and fall of his chest and Grantaire is stunned, because it’s a sculpture breathing life into the artist instead of vice versa. “I can’t.”

“I… I don’t know,” Enjolras mutters in a rich, husky whisper. “I don’t know anything,” and then he chuckles, a small, soft, innocent sound, like the salted air of the sea. Their knuckles brush together and all of Paris and its trembling lights explode below their feet like a supernova, as if they hadn’t been clasping hands only a few minutes, or eternities earlier.

Enjolras’ swollen eyelids slide shut, they’re so close that Grantaire can count each and every fair straw on the multitude of his angel’s eyelashes, he’s fucking drunk in the stars but he doesn’t care anymore because he’s even drunker in Apollo’s sweet breath as it softly touches his smoked, burnt lips so he shuts his eyes and gives himself over, closer and closer and never there, ready to die once again…

“Gran _taire_?”

He’s violently snapped out of his dream and it’s like the Eiffel Tower itself has kicked his butt but it’s the voice of no other but Marius Pontmercy himself so he opens his eyes because Grantaire and surrealism always had a thing going between them. Enjolras’ face is still an inch away and he’s flushed red like one of the three colors on Liberty’s flag as she leads the people to their sacred massacre.

“Enjolras?!”

“Feuilly?”

Marius and Feuilly are both standing on the doorway of the fire escape, both looking positively shocked.

“Grantaire?”

“ _Marius_?”

“Enjolras?”

“Right, that's oh so Frank n Furter of you but I'm afraid I've left my garters at work,” it’s Feuilly who regains his composure first and manages to casually diffuse the tension. “R, do you have a smoke?”

Grantaire, still mesmerized and completely frozen, manages to snap back into reality and reach for a cigarette as Enjolras quickly stands up, almost crashing his precious laptop underneath his clumsy weight. It’s Marius who apologizes first because that’s the way the world goes round and Enjolras mutters an excuse, not daring to shoot Grantaire a second look before he stumbles inside the apartment.

Grantaire lights another cigarette himself and nods through Feuilly and Marius’ explanations for the book meeting they’ve organized with Combeferre before they leave and finally, he slams his head against the wall until he sees freckles instead of eyelashes wrapped around the starry sky like the tentacles of the sun.


	10. I've seen the paths that your eyes wander down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I ship it.”
> 
> “Whoever the fuck doesn’t?” Jehan muses in his arms with a dreamy sigh.
> 
> Courfeyrac grins with mischief. “Make it happen?”
> 
> There is silence for a while through which they can only hear a hoarse, muffled shout on the terms of _“Pretentious white privileged anarchist Greek God my majestic ass!”_
> 
> “Make it happen,” Jehan yawns sleepily, and soon they’re both snoring serenely, shoving Morpheus out of the threesome and settling for each other’s arms instead.  
> *  
> Enjolras huffs. “Show me?”
> 
>  _“Show you?”_ Grantaire asks incredulously. “Seriously? Jesus Enjolras, just throw the fucking paint on the wall!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've probably become predictable but yes, lately I'm not satisfied by my latest chapters. This chapter is mostly a fill-in but I guess it's needed. I hope it's not too bad, since in the next one everything will probably go to hell. Thank you so much for reading, it means the whole world to me!  
> Title is from 'Falling in love at a coffee shop' by Landon Pigg.  
> I have written the last part inspired by [this gorgeous scene](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lagFmTpTaOg) of J'ai tue ma mere several times in the past, but deleted it and rewrote it in a way that feels better right now.  
> Also I saw a wonderful post about Gavroche's "show-off crush" on Enjolras on Tumblr but I can't seem to find it so if it's yours and you read this story, sorry for not linking and thank you for the adorableness!  
> Excuse my horrible gizoogle impulse, my hand slipped again and I'm sleepy.  
> Opinions and constructive criticism are always more than appreciated!

They don’t do much talking. Jehan recites poetry. Courfeyrac waxes poetic with his hands and lips. They hold each other desperately, as if they’re going to dissolve into incorrigible letters and be lost in the pages of a history book and Courfeyrac can’t let that happen again. He’s always been clingy in his own way but he’s never felt the air be sucked out of a room because of another human being, and now he needs Jean Prouvaire in every way he can have him, and he’s willing to give him every little thing that passes through his hands.

They don’t do much talking and sometimes Courfeyrac wish they would. He’d always had Combeferre when he was scared like that, but now he’s busy with teaching Gavroche and worrying about the protest and the rest of them. He’s always had Enjolras too but he has to worry for his friend instead because their chief is about to work himself to death and they all literally need to look after his wellbeing, hopefully until the protest. Summer is just around the corner and Courfeyrac gets restless, needy. Jehan is there but then he isn’t, and Courfeyrac wishes it wouldn’t all be so vague because vague can get painful and he doesn’t want to ache, not now, because what they’ve got is beautiful, and sometimes beautiful is hard to be true.

But then there are those tiny fractions of eternity that they spent in each other’s arms, in a humid fairy-lit room smelling of flowers and intimacy, and with his head on Jean Prouvaire’s chest he touches heaven. Courfeyrac shuts his eyes and smiles blissfully, unwilling to wake up from that wonderfully realistic dream of fingertips tracing on his sweaty skin like feathers.

Jehan plants kisses that bloom all over his face, breathes poetry on his biceps and eyelashes, on his collarbones and wrists. And then there are times when they just burst into giggles, gossiping one thing or another or making ridiculous puns, and Jehan’s face lights up just for a while, until the night comes, or a beautiful, silent dawn, and he falls quiet again.

It’s a particularly loud evening that finds them both exhausted and well spent between Courfeyrac’s damp sheets, with that ridiculous green lava lamp for the coolest tacky atmosphere there is for glorious extra-terrestrial sex. It takes only a while to realize they’re not the only ones who have been loud: the bickering from next door exceeds married couple level and Courfeyrac sighs wearily at their best friends’ ridiculousness. “I ship it.”

“Whoever the fuck doesn’t?” Jehan muses with a dreamy sigh.

Courfeyrac grins with mischief. “Make it happen?”

There is silence for a while through which they can only hear a hoarse, muffled shout on the terms of “Pretentious white privileged anarchist Greek God my majestic _ass_!”

“Make it happen,” Jehan yawns sleepily, and soon they’re both snoring serenely, shoving Morpheus out of the threesome and settling for each other’s arms instead.

*

“And what if I don’t _want_ to knit?” Enjolras pouts, striving for the personification of horrifying, righteous fury and ending up looking like a grumpy dandelion kitten instead. “Shouldn’t _I_ be having a say in this oppressive system?”

“You will knit darling, and you will love it,” Jean Prouvaire enters the empty room of the bookshop he’s kept open just for the two of them, his bare feet thumping on the wooden floor as he takes a seat near his friend and places two cups of pretentious poetic tea in front of them. “And if you’re nice then I promise that we’ll marathon Game of Thrones and compose an essay with social approaches on why the fuck we adore the shit R.R. Martin serves us.” Jehan winks sinisterly. “No one will know.”

Enjolras frowns even more, checking the room once again before turning to eye his friend seriously. “Deal. But I swear _I’ll hate_ knitting especially when the people are waitingto be liberated and I’m sitting here being idle. AND I don’t drink tea, it’s the residue of the bourgeoisie…”

His stupid herbal tea is shoved into his face and he scrunches up his nose in horror. “Jehan… uh, I don’t know how to phrase this but… are our mugs shaped like _skulls_?”

“Aren’t they _adorable_?” Jehan coos dreamily.

Enjolras ends up adoring knitting so aggressively much that Jehan simply _owes_ Grantaireto snap all those sneaky pictures of him biting a tiny pink tip of his tongue while he changes pattern, casually slipping one flower after the other in the thick braid of the blonde’s hair while he’s way too absorbed in passing more red wool through the needle, his glasses slipping dangerously from one side of his nose.

He protests for his rights when Jehan calls it a day for their knitting, but then they spread cardboard paper and colors on the ancient wooden floor of the beautiful bookshop and sit there, between the intoxicating smell of old books, designing signs for the upcoming protest. Enjolras admires Jean Prouvaire greatly for his conviction, his bravery and his opinions, not to mention how intimidatingly well read the man is. He has to admit that he really appreciates the company and the break from all the suffocating work he’s taken on his shoulders, but he isn’t going to admit _that_ to Combeferre. Maybe he’ll thank his childhood friend… indirectly. With a woolen something, that is.

Still, however, even after hours of intelligent, perfectly eloquent political conversations, he can’t deny the fact that Jean Prouvaire is full of riddles and mutters incorrigible words in various languages that Enjolras can’t tell if it’s poetry or dark magic spells, in a deep, hoarse voice under his breath. When Enjolras casually clears his throat and drops into the conversation whether Jehan has met with Feuilly or Marius today, he eventually understands why Bahorel calls him a murderous flower with glittery claws.

“Love is not love which alters when alteration finds,” Jehan croons absently, in an ethereal voice, and the paint he’s got covered all over his face, making him look positively harmless and adorable doesn’t really help.

“I’ve told you to not speak English to me,” Enjolras pouts grumpily, “sure, our wonderfully rich, complex language could hold a level of simplification in order to sufficiently serve the masses, but…”

“I said _of course not,_ ” Jehan stares at Enjolras behind fluttering lashes and wide open deer eyes which reminds Enjolras of the time Jehan has been spending with Courfeyrac in order to master his tricks, which reminds him of the ungodly sounds that scarred Enjolras’ life forever the previous night, and causes him to flinch in horror and hiss “God” under his breath without even noticing.

“God is dead,” chants Jehan in an eerie voice, almost causing him to jump on his seat and fall with his butt in a bucket full of purple paint.

When he manages to regain his composure, Enjolras looks at him. “Nietzsche?”

“Nah,” Jehan shakes his hand dismissively in the air. “De Nerval.”

“Oh right,” Enjolras nods, a little perplexed.

Jehan takes a moment to smile at his friend’s face of religious concentration while he paints huge revolutionary slogans on cardboards. “You look like you quite enjoy painting as well, who would have thought!” he muses.

“These are for the cause,” Enjolras murmurs, careful not to meet his eye.

“Courfeyrac told me he found Jackson Pollock on your browser search History.”

That immediately catches a furiously blushing Enjolras’ attention and he opens his mouth to protest but Jehan holds up a hand. “Calm down honey, it could be worse! It could be medieval mermaid porn which is _thoroughly bad_!”

Enjolras almost chokes on his tea and hisses murderously at Jehan’s direction. “Courfeyrac is just being ridiculous.”

“Of course he is,” the other man nods solemnly. He dips his brush in the blue paint before raising his head again. “Grantaire said Friday at six,” he smiles sweetly. “Keep my best friend waiting…” a dramatic pause, “and you feel my wrath.”

*

He doesn’t know how it happens but he packs all of his notes in his messenger bag and, without taking the pencils that hold his bun in place off, bursts out of the building and finds himself walking at the sunny streets of St. Michel, full with tourists and Parisians melting at the premature heat of the season. There is a decided expression on his face, until he bursts into the café Musain (he’s not going to thank capitalism for the air conditioning no he fucking isn’t) and he falls tête-à-tête with Grantaire, almost tripping his disc with the steamy mugs.

He gulps at the sight of him, something twitching uncomfortably in his stomach, as if they haven’t been sleeping for the past couple of months with their heads literally a few inches apart. There’s nothing sort of extreme here, just his neighbour doing his job, a perfectly regular routine, only his olive green t-shirt might be _extremely_ tight, his black curls might be _extremely_ messy and his biceps might be _extremely_ toned and colorful and _ugh._ Worst of all, his eyes are _extremely_ blue and Enjolras, annoyed with himself, wonders whether he’ll ever learn to swim in them.

Grantaire just stands there, staring at him for what feels like eternity before relocating the mugs and glasses on the disc, with that irritatingly frustrating smile of him that Enjolras can never tell whether it’s full of sarcasm and snark, or quiet excitement and maybe, just _maybe,_ utter _veneration_. Their eyes lock and Enjolras absently reaches to help him with a glass, but his hand is left hanging in the air.

“Well look who’s here,” they hear a cheerful, sweet voice and Enjolras is snapped back to reality when a loud, kiss is smacked on his face. “You know that coffee killed Balzac, right?”

“Nonsense,” tuts Grantaire teasingly, having managed to balance all caffeinated poisons on his disc and serve them to their relative victims. “Nectar never killed a God though dear Apollo here _could_ try something a bit stronger.” He returns at them and fixes his stained apron. “You look a bit _tensed,_ ” he smirks.

“R is right, you know,” chirps Cosette, grabbing a towel to deftly clean the counter, twirling merrily in her butterfly chiffon and 40s flare skirt. “Your hand has been hanging there for quite a while.”

Enjolras clears his throat and brings his hand to rub his burning cheeks. “I’m fine,” he half-snaps before mellowing a bit at Cosette’s quirked eyebrow. “It’s the heat,” he finally mutters.

“Well I should go be going now, I’m late for my feminist book and sewing club meeting,” Cosette finally finishes her cleaning and examines her flawless retro hairstyle – complimented with lime green ringlets, to match her butterflies – on the pane of the pastry fridge. She turns to Grantaire with an amused expression. “Don’t expect Musichetta later, she was giggling notoriously on the phone and I could hear Bossuet mention something about leather that Joly apparently found _hilarious_.”

Grantaire cringes. “You know that’s _far_ more information than I can let sink in with only two beers.”

“You said feminist book and sewing club?” Enjolras asks.

“Oh yes, it’s wonderful! We sew all those adorable tea rugs and bunny slippers with slogans against patriarchy! Sometimes my dad joins us too because, you know,” she mocks a deep voice, more of a growl, really, “ _I’m not a regular dad I’m a cool cop dad!”_ Grantaire rolls his eyes behind her back but apparently she has eyes on the chiffon bow that’s there because she frowns and attacks him with no warning, pinching his sides with a warning glare. “Behave,” she brings her hands on her hips, turning to Enjolras, and he has to admit she’s quite scary. “Both of you.”

And with that, Cosette turns around and walks out of the Musain, causing the doorbell to jingle merrily behind her twirling skirts.

“So, what brings you here, worlds away from your busy world-saving schedule?” mutters Grantaire as he walks behind the counter and Enjolras follows him.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Enjolras raises and eyebrow and Grantaire raises his eyes in confusion. “Coffee.”

It almost seems like a faint spark of hope that Enjolras hadn’t noticed in Grantaire’s eyes dies a bit, but that’s probably the heat doing funny things on his already tired head. “You can come here, you know,” Grantaire taps the counter, “in the dirty backstage of the caffeine business.”

Enjolras rolls his eyes, unimpressed. “Awesome,” he says sarcastically, walking behind the counter, trying hard not to piss himself from his actual excitement at all the different machines of the Balzac heaven.

“Here,” Grantaire offers him a small syrupy bun of questionable identity, “it’s Cosette’s sticky applepie goodness.” Watching him hesitate, the dark haired man brings the Sticky Goodness Thing dangerously closer to Enjolras’ sealed lips, breathing in a sinfully husky voice. “Guaranteed to make you produce the most orgasmic sounds,” and no, Enjolras is feeling perfectly alright, it’s the fucking _heat_ thank you very much and the sun should get sued, so should Grantaire.

He narrows his eyes, trying not to swallow the tightness on his throat. “Do you talk like that to all of your customers?”

Grantaire leans closer, taking a slow bite from his own little bun and his teeth are crooked and sharp and his thin lips are shining with syrup… “Only to the blindingly blond, leggings cladded, fearsome ones.” And with that he simply turns around, a dangerous glint in his sky blue eyes, setting on the espresso machine. “No sugar, right?”

“No,” Enjolras answers, taking a bite from his applepie. “Dark, like my soul.”

He ignores Grantaire’s sarcastic little snort and somehow manages to get syrup all over his fingers and his face. He’s feeling ridiculous enough like that even before he feels a long, hoarse moan vibrate in his throat at the first squishy, sugary bite that melts into his mouth.

Grantaire’s eyes are still doing strange things, Enjolras can swear they’ve never been so blue before and is it possible that his pupils are slightly dilated? “Impressive,” he mutters, uncrossing his tattooed arms and reaching for Enjolras’ ready coffee. The blonde notices him swallow. His neck practically bobs while Grantaire turns to hand him his relievingly cold mug. “Still not better than Jehan and Courf though.”

“Don’t remind me,” cringes Enjolras. “They’re downright repulsive.”

“If you really want to become a super fucking hero,” Grantaire glares at him, “why don’t you do some good in the world and just lock them in a closet for the rest of their lives or something? I can’t concentrate on my porn with all that real sex going on in the next room!”

“I couldn’t possibly,” Enjolras frowns. “They’d reproduce and I highly doubt this world could handle all those little pagan witches with bowties and skulls running around.”

Grantaire chuckles softly, wrapping his hands around his own coffee mug – in which he’s slipped a few drops of whiskey he’s been keeping under the counter, Enjolras notes, feeling his chest tighten. “Someone should teach you the basics of elementary Biology, Apollo.” Oh yes, someone definitely should, like teach him how it is possible for some hands to be objectively more physically attractive than others, and how a combination of bitten nails and long fingers and veins is possible in such a nice shape, and why does Grantaire keep swallowing stuff today, this is just _wrong_ and downright offensive _._

Enjolras opens his mouth to speak but Grantaire does the same and before they know it they blurt out on the same time:

“Sorry about tomorrow I didn’t…”

“I know you probably don’t want…”

Enjolras can feel his cheeks going red hot as Grantaire rushes to take a sip of his own alcoholic drink. “Let’s put it differently,” he says almost breathlessly. “Is it still on for six o’clock, tomorrow?”

Grantaire slowly raises his eyes, looking slightly out of his depth. Enjolras notices the dark circles beneath them, the curling scruff on his cheeks, the dryness of his chapped lips, and he remembers of how close they’d been to his own in what feels like an eternity ago…

“If… if you’re sure about it.”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras takes a deep breath, but doesn’t manage to continue as if the air in the small, bright coffee shop is sucked out of it and blocking his lungs.

“Drink your poison, Apollo,” Grantaire gives him a faint, crooked smile that causes something inside of him to flutter, “and let me have my own.”

*

“You do realize that stealing people’s money to buy your show off crush ‘gifts’ is frowned upon in modern societies when it isn’t even his birthday!”

“I’m merely _borrowing_ from ladies in Juicy sweats,” Gavroche waves his hand in the air dismissively, determined not to show his blush. “They don’t need it anyways. ’Sides I bought Courf a present too.”

“Well considering it is _his_ birthday…” Éponine snorts at her brother sarcastically.

“I appreciate your thought of buying Courfeyrac tricolor underwear for his birthday, Gavroche,” says Combeferre in a serious voice. “But what made you think that getting Enjolras a kilo of haribos was by any means ok? You could at least have done it the other way!”

“Well we’re comradres,” Gavroche rolls his eyes, stating the patently obvious. “Blondie asked for haribos, twas upon my honour to get Blondie haribos.”

“Combeferre what am I going to do?” groans Éponine. “Eleven years old and he sounds like a dealer already!”

Combeferre looks on the verge of exhaustion, if not slightly amused at the same time. “Gavroche, you can’t call Enjolras your comrade just because he gave you coffee.”

“For which he very much is going to _pay_ unless he decides to adopt you and deal with your caffeine and sugar overdoses himself.”

“Courf is cool and R is cool but we’re not _comrades_ ,” Gavroche snorts, “Grantaire won’t let me do graffiti or give me any beer and Courf may be the coolest but he won't let me to the protest. Enjolras on the other hand shared his liquor! 'Sides, R is being gross about him so we gotta keep him kickin it cause he's more better than the others that R was gross about before!”

Combeferre chokes on his coffee while Éponine throws herself up, eyeing her brother murderously. “Well not that Courfeyrac has any say in this but for once in his life he's acting _very wisely_ not letting you to the protest!”

And with that, Gavroche flashes Éponine a gigantic mischievous smile and grabs his little backpack, sneering"Of _course_ sis!” before masterfully slipping through between their chairs and out of the kitchen.

"Can I have my car keys, please?" Combeferre calls calmly from the kitchen table.

"Maybe you're just wearing them, honey," Gavroche mocks a 50s housewife TV voice from the door of the apartment.

"GIVE HIM BACK HIS KEYS, YOU LITTLE SHIT!" roars Éponine, and Gavroche appears back into the kitchen with the most innocent, puppy face there is.

"Oh look, they were on the fridge," he gapes in shock, flailing the keys in front of Combeferre's glasses. "You probably didn't search hard enough, when was the last time you fixed your glasses?"

Éponine looks ready to attack and Gavroche knows his limits, so he beams a promiscuous "arrivederci" and bursts out of the apartment before she can say another word.

She collapses on the kitchen chair and sighs. “So tell me, how come your bestie have the Eiffel tower stuck up his ass and still manage to woo every fucking human being in this world, including my baby brother?”

Combeferre chuckles wearily, taking off his glasses so that he can rub the bridge of his nose, briefly pressing his eyelids shut. “He has that effect on to people, I guess. Gavroche just looks up to him,” he mutters. “But you shouldn’t be so harsh on Enjolras. One needs time to understand his way of thinking, he doesn’t work like normal people do, sometimes he forgets to sleep for days.”

“Yeah I heard his hair’s insured for 10000$ and one time he punched Montparnasse in the face, it was awesome,” Éponine says snarkily. “Besides you’re not one to talk. When was the last time _you_ slept?”

Combeferre makes an incorrigible sound between a whimper and an impatient growl and Éponine frowns because she won’t be among the intimidated ones – including Marius – from Combeferre’s occasional prickliness. The man needs some rest, it’s patently obvious. He hadn’t even looked like that during exam period and she knows it has to do with the upcoming protest. Obviously things aren’t going well and, even though she won’t admit it, she’s been more invested in the whole thing than she’d bargained for in the beginning and it thoroughly upsets her. He’s sporting a two day scruff (on which she won’t comment, she most definitely won’t) and his sandy brown hair is messy and ruffled. As for his usually kind, warm chocolate eyes, they’re deeply sunk into dark circles that can be visible even behind the lenses of his glasses.

There is another thing on which Éponine is not intending to comment. It’s the Polo shirt season for those who spend their lives in grandpa sweater vests, and short sleeves work rather well with tattoo sleeves. Éponine doesn’t know anything anymore.

“You look like shit,” she exclaims, obviously not referring to the tattoos, when she receives no answer.

“Thanks,” Combeferre mutters wearily, clearly not in the mood. And immediately after that, he reminds her how fucking unpredictable he can get. “I can’t say the same about you.”

She can feel her cheeks burning and she hates it, she never got flustered for Marius, let alone for other guys.

“Are you okay?” his voice comes out changed, almost tender, and even though he doesn’t mention Marius – he never will – Éponine knows that nothing escapes his notice. He’s seen the way he looks at them, at all of his friends, and the truth is that, for the timebeing, she can’t even answer his question to himself.

“Yeah,” she replies with no much effort. She’s used to no one caring whether she’s okay, and after that she got used to end the conversation there, when people actually started to care. “Are you?”

He raises his eyes, looking quite taken aback by the turn of her question. “Of course Ponine, why wouldn’t I be?”

“Well you _are_ knackered though,” she insists, raising a disapproving eyebrow, the last remaining hints of protectiveness that she’s solely saved for Gavroche and Grantaire when she’s not shitfaced and wrecked herself. “You look as if you’ll collapse any minute and then I’ll have to carry your heavy unconscious ass off of my kitchen piles.”

“I’m _fine,_ ” he waves his hand dismissively, with little tolerance palpable on his voice once again. “You have enough to worry about already.”

“No,” she stands up firmly, “ _you_ have a shit fucking load to care about and _now_ you’re going to have some ice cream and talk to me about it.”

“There is nothing to talk about,” Combeferre sighs, his breath a bit caught on his throat as he moves quickly in the kitchen, in nothing but a huge white t-shirt that contrasts so beautifully against her tanned skin, and Grantaire’s boxer shorts, the tattoos moving on her calves as she walks barefoot to the fridge and starts the coffee machine. The temperature in the room seems to have risen slightly and Combeferre is not a summer person.

“Of course,” Éponine nods solemnly, sitting cross legged on her chair again. “No really, I demand that you fucking _talk_.”

Apparently Éponine can get much scarier than Enjolras, or even Combeferre himself can, not to mention that he’s already eternally grateful for the chocolate ice cream that she puts on the table in front of him. “Well,” he starts in a quiet, thoughtful voice. “It has been a bad day at the hospital. I… I’ve always been prepared for what I would be doing but you know, some things in that field can get you a bit down sometimes.” He suddenly looks loosened up and he sips his coffee as if his life’s depending on it. “It’s not always easy when… things don’t go as planned. It has been a hard week, what with our preparations going to hell and, you know, Courfeyrac and Jehan getting their shit together is wonderful and all, but someone has to make sure his nymphomaniac friends eat at some point of the day, and then Joly wasn’t well and Enjolras really does need supervision…” The change on the tone of his tired voice is immense, he now sounds like he’s had enough and his face almost resembles his best friend’s demonstrations of righteous fury. “Not to mention that History of Hieroglyphics which went out of stock _even in Jehan’s bookshop_!” The last announcement actually comes out as the gravest of them all.

“You know sometimes,” Éponine mutters, pulling her tangled dark hair in a messy bun on the top of her head, after subtle surprise leaves her face and she regains her composure, “I don’t know how you, odd creature of the night, are even human. You help everybody and you live like a fucking zombie. And I know for a fact that you don’t _hate_ fun, you’re not Enjolras.”

Combeferre shrugs his shoulders. “It’s quite alright, Éponine. Stuff needs to be done, and some periods are harder than others.”

“You need to get the fuck out more,” she eventually decides firmly. “That’s it. You’re going out with me.”

He almost chokes on his coffee and melted ice cream. “Excuse me?”

“Courf’s party’s on Saturday, right? Tomorrow then, I don’t start work until midnight. We’re going to some fancy pretentious bourgeois restaurant or wherever you go to have fun. Eight o’clock.” She raises a threatening eyebrow, challenging him to decline. “How does that sound?”

Combeferre swallows slowly, his eyes glassy and wide open. “Good,” he mutters hoarsely, “it sounds good.”

He’s left alone in Éponine’s kitchen, completely stunned, wondering what their world has come to.

*

Grantaire’s jeans are already covered in paint when he greets him at the door and there’s something final in the realization that Enjolras is actually _doing this._ He’s just sitting in front of his complete absence of artistic skill and tells it to go fuck itself and, even though there are hundreds of things he should be currently doing instead, he has to admit that the whole thing seems quite liberating.

“You sure you want to do this?” Grantaire is still looking uncertain himself, as if he’s the one who bullied Enjolras into it without his consent.

“Positive,” Enjolras nods with determination, and takes the brush that Grantaire hands him.

The corridor is full with books, brushes, pencils and records. There is also Grantaire’s guitar, Enjolras notes with a leap in his chest. His bedroom is empty apart from his bed and desk, both wrapped with old sheets. The floor is covered in newspapers, dizzying black and white with just a few drops of color where the buckets lay in the corner. Enjolras had failed to notice the off white, clear wall when he’d seen Grantaire’s room without an open window, but now it slowly downs him that that’s what they plan to paint.

He can sense Grantaire’s blue eyes scanning his appearance and suddenly a flush spreads on his cheeks. “I told you to wear something old,” he quirks an eyebrow and Enjolras frowns.

“That’s the older thing I’ve got,” he replies matter of fact, staring at his striped red boatneck shirt and tight black jeans.

“So are you planning to paint or to pose for an Abercrombie photoshoot?” Grantaire grins sarcastically. Considering their options for a while, he turns around and exits his room. “You’ll be swimming in my clothes, I’ll give you something of Jehan to change into.”

Enjolras just stands there, brush hanging awkwardly from his hand. He decides that this has all been a bad, _bad_ idea from the very beginning. They haven’t even started and he wants to punch Grantaire’s stupid face and wipe off this annoying crooked smile that upsets him so much, and then he wants to grab those tattooed arms and pin them against…

Grantaire is back, an incorrigible mass of 90s denim hanging from his arm. “Let’s save those glorious jeans of yours,” he smirks. They stand on the newspapers for a while, both slightly perplexed. “I’ll, uh, turn round,” Grantaire eventually clears his throat.

Enjolras’ pulse picks up against his meninges as he unbuttons and unzips his trousers as quietly as possible, but he knows that Grantaire can still hear his fumbling against the fabric as he struggles to jump out of them. He has some trouble figuring out how to slip in Jehan’s giant pair of overalls and in the end he’s sure he looks positively ridiculous but, he reluctantly admits that Grantaire was right: he’s feeling much more comfortable now.

“Your time is up,” Grantaire croons. “I’m turning around and woe to yourself if you’re not ready, my fair maiden.”

And with that he turns around and he’s facing Enjolras who’s facing the blank wall. Without another word, Grantaire sighs and dips his brush in the bucket full of blue paint and tosses it a bit in the air, sending just a few drops of night on the wall, not caring for the fresh stains on his baggy jeans, black t-shirt and bare feet. He turns around and looks at Enjolras who finds himself biting the inside of his cheek, obviously intimidated for the first time in his life.

“Yeah?” Grantaire gestures slowly, as if he’s talking to a five year old kid. “Anything wrong, Apollo?”

Enjolras huffs. “Show me?”

“ _Show you_?” the dark haired man asks incredulously. “Seriously? Jesus Enjolras, just throw the fucking paint on the wall!”

“I can’t,” Enjolras snaps, retying his chaos of golden curls into a tight ponytail.

“You can’t,” Grantaire repeats with a blank impression.

“You’re the artist here!”

Before Enjolras knows what’s happening, a brush gets dipped in red paint and callused fingers have gripped his wrist. An arm is tightly wrapped his chest and he’s sure his frantic heartbeat is going to give him away. “Ready?” Grantaire’s hoarse voice breathes into his ear and Enjolras shudders, his expression turning to that of religious concentration as their bodies align.

Before he can even reply, Grantaire is leading his hand with the brush and red paint is spilt all over. The first drops on the white wall, mingling with the blue ones and slowly, tantalizingly starting to drip, remind Enjolras of blood. His own blood has forgotten itself, and breathing almost doesn’t feel mandatory anymore. Grantaire watches, mesmerized, at the angel next to him, how his innocent, porcelain face goes flustered with warmth and conviction, how he is transformed to the personification of determined glory, in red, white and blue denim, how he slowly dips the brush in the paint as if it’s a world-changing process and jumps in the air for the first time, the sunrays in his hair swishing as the slender curve of his body arches and for that moment Grantaire is possessed by the feeling that if he ever touches Enjolras that way, then they can touch the sky.

They turn on the radio and soon music’s pumping through their veins as the colors that seem to burst from their very bodies play with the stray sunrays and the little bit of Paris through the window. Soon their fingers are pieces of art, their clothes and hair, the skin of their bare feet as they jump off the newspapers in what seems like slow motion. Paint flies all over, paint mixed with sweat, dripping slowly on the wall and clothes stick on their colorful skin. They fly as well, every curve and every muscle of their bodies lighter with every drop of color that they toss in the air. Enjolras is screaming, he doesn’t know where it comes from but he is and so is Grantaire, it’s the most treasured freedom that they will ever touch and it’s utterly debauched as their hands clasp tightly, colors mingling skin on skin, while the dripping colors revolt upon the wall and soon they’re fighting, red and gold, green and black, azure eyes and lips in the color of the wine, they fall on the newspapers, colors entrapping all the incorrigible words and confiscating their insignificant meaning, revolutionary chaos ensuing as they swim in sweat and Grantaire tugs on the hem of his shirt and pulls it over his head.

It’s art, Grantaire is art, muscles and curves, everything composing the most distorted, imperfect statue of earthly clay rather than classic, eternal marble. He’s perfect, he’s shining in thick sweat and panting against the newspapers, covered in color, _all of him,_ drunk seas, shot strawberries and bloody wine all over the muscles of his arms, the few words on his hard stomach and Icarus flying on his shoulder blade. Enjolras can’t breathe and he doesn’t even need to because the only way for it to happen is his breath to mingle with the art in Grantaire’s own, and he’s unworthy of art as much as a sacred revolutionary martyr, forever unworthy of the relieving slumber of death.

The heat in the room is suddenly unbearable, immense. Enjolras is laying on the newspapers, his hair spread all over the black and white nonsense of another life, his lips red, yellow, violet and orange, and those of Grantaire more bitter than ever before and just a breath away, the heat of his bare, _alive_ skin causing all of Enjolras’ being to almost explode like the orgasmic rebellion of green and purple and ochre in between Grantaire’s untamed hair. Their breaths are caught up into a fight, Grantaire’s falls hot and thick on his skin. Strong arms are pinning him against the newspapers and Enjolras gasps in what ecstasy would feel like if it was in Technicolor, without making the faintest sound. There’s a revolution going on in his chest and his head is twirling in a revolution of abstract shades and thick colors. And just as the world stops spinning, Grantaire throws himself up, complete horror frozen in his eyes, and bursts out of his own bedroom, leaving Enjolras dizzy on the newspapers.


	11. And you feel hopeless, and homeless, and lost in the haze of the wine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Enjolras, truth or dare?”
> 
> Enjolras and giggles should under no circumstances be put in the same sentence because then everyone will know that the world as they know it has come to an end but the world has probably exploded because Enjolras _giggles_. “Dare?”
> 
> “Give Grantaire a lap dance.”
> 
>  
> 
> _Or the one where Éponine and Combeferre have a date, Courfeyrac has his birthday and everyone makes out with everyone._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is all the levels of ridiculous but I have to admit that I kind of like it. I mean, it had been in my head for quite a long time but I just happened to be, ahem, horny, there is no other possible way for me to dress this excuse more decently. 
> 
> SO please please PLEASE, if you think this will make you feel in any way uncomfortable, then please consider yourself warned and don’t hate me! I had not been always comfortable myself with that sort of stuff in the past so I hate to ruin the general atmosphere of the story and make everyone OOC when I'd tried so hard to keep them IC all along, but it just happened because they’re young adults and sometimes I’m a young adult too and this is the way I think and this is a possible way I’d be like in my best and worst moments in a group with dynamics similar to Les Amis' so I'm so sorry. 
> 
> So yeah, there is a tiny bit of promiscuity in this chapter and in the next one. I mean, everyone makes out with pretty much everyone, even people in established relationships do stuff with other people so please if any of that makes you feel uncomfortable then do skip this chapter, just knowing for the continuation of the plot that everyone kisses everyone (apart from Enjolras and Grantaire but I can't lie, you can feel it just around the corner now, can't you?) and most things go to hell (at least will do so in the next chapter). 
> 
> Just to make my position clear, I don’t exactly approve of the turn the whole Jehan/Courf thing is taking, it is fucked up on a certain extent and on its own way (always in my opinion), not because they can't have an open relationship, but because they haven't discussed what they have at all, but I’m going to develop this later. I mean, the whole quasi-relationship thingy won't just flow smoothly like, shit happens in this chapter and more shit will happen in the future but I'll try hard to bring back the decency of the story in the following scenes so please bear with me and always share your thoughts, it means the world!
> 
> WARNINGS: Drinking, stupid party games, brief mentions of blood, embarrassing typos that have failed my attention.
> 
> Title is from the wonderful song 'Sometime Around Midnight' from the Airbone Toxic Event, simply because it is literally written for Eponine from Combeferre's POV.
> 
> The Bagel God and the whole religion rightfully belongs to my wonderful princess [Screamingpoet](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Screamingpoet/pseuds/Screamingpoet) whose genius you should forever praise.
> 
> Opinions and constructive criticism are always more than welcome.

She’s almost half an hour late and she appears out of what seems to be thin air, without apologizing. She doesn’t look in a hurry yet she’s never entirely relaxed, always a bit alarmed, jumping at small sounds and habitually scanning the monuments, shops, and walking people around them with almost mathematical precision.

They start walking in the cobblestone streets of the Quartier Latin after sharing a friendly hug that somehow manages to thrill his entire existence, and she doesn’t even give him the time to admire her. He does so anyway. She looks so perfectly human that it almost gets whimsical. The colors of her tattoos are around the straps of her gladiator sandals that reach up her mid-calf even though it’s still cool and breezy at night. Her dress is flowy and simple but he’s never seen anything more Italian renaissance standards-harmonious and _right_ than the contrast of the thin white fabric against the glow of her olive skin and the way her dark, shiny hair falls loose on her slumped shoulders and the subtle curves of her breasts and it seems so easy to reach with his fingers and touch a lock but at the next moment he feels like the biggest creeper in the whole of Paris.

They walk between the couscous and Thai shops, the pizzerias and the Greek taverns and they buy wrapped falafels, enjoying the true wonder that they manage to get sauce all over their face. It’s natural and it flows smoothly. Neither is really patient for anything else at this point of their lives, for anything but the She takes her time to snort at his occasional geeking and disguise her internal drooling while he loses himself in the freeing melody of her laughter.

  
When they're tired by the tourist noise and the mediocre food, they walk all the way to the Marais. They end up in a small piano bar and sit next to each other on a couch. The dreamy distorted jazz harmonies and the dim lighting relax her awfully much and some of the tension eases off her brow. She can feel the change in her manner of speaking as she opens up to his gentle, welcoming warmth of his eyes. She talks of Gavroche and Montparnasse, of her work and of their ridiculous friends. Words flow like wine inside her, words about her shady family and problematic past, and she finds herself asking of his own stories almost greedily, begging for his mellow voice to lull her into oblivion. He is reluctant to talk of himself, she realizes that he always has been yet she needs that, for that moment she’s only a child craving not for his new toy but for a childhood that it never really had. She forgets about anything else while she fills her life with fairytales and then, just like that, he tells her how much he admires her for everything she’s doing, for Gavroche and all that, and she can almost feel the dark circles retreating a bit from her eyes, her hollow cheeks burning with a little color of life. She knows that it’s absurd, that it’s words that should be meaningless when coming from a perfect human being to whom she’ll never manage to be compared, but he makes it sound okay, he makes it sound _right_ and it’s what her weary self had always needed but didn’t know, that and much more. So she cracks a smile, melting into the chocolate of his eyes and the comforting safety of his scent and jokes, as he sips his drink, that some guys just can’t hold their arsenic. And Combeferre has to try hard to not cup the warm skin of her face with his hands and hold her close, admitting that he’d willingly drown in every poison that she’d give him.

  
It has started pouring lightly before they walk out of the bar and into the lit cobblestone streets. It’s cold for the season, almost relieving as they feel the rain on their skin and smell the freedom in it as it lands on their tongues. They run a bit breathlessly, slightly dizzy from the wine. They’re holding hands but it’s nothing, nothing that it shouldn’t be. They stop, panting against an old wall who has seen more standing at that corner of the Latin Quarter than the eyes of every Parisian soul will ever dream of entrapping.

  
Combeferre’s shirt is damp and sticking on his wide shoulders, his hair ruffled and his glasses wet and foggy. He takes them off to wipe them on his shirt and raises his dark eyes quite unexpectedly. Some eyes are bigger when glasses go off, some are smaller, these are _just_ warm and Éponine suddenly wants to grab his round _perfect_ , witty face and kiss him senseless but with Combeferre it doesn’t work that way, it’s not like the way she wanted to kiss Marius from the very moment she lay his eyes upon him. All she knows is that she’s drunk – no, _intoxicated_ and right now all the lights of the street look dull compared to the way he looks at him, and she’s scared. Scared of herself, scared of her nonsensical impulses and the insane fairytales she always made up in her head, scared of making one wrong step on the piles beneath her feet and losing this as she always lost everything she’d hardly even managed to gain.

  
There are heavy raindrops on her thick hair and her hand leaves his own, fingers brought to her lips, fumbling absently with her cheap ring that's bluing her skin. He takes his glasses off and wonders if he should keep it like that forever. Maybe blurring the night away would be a wise choice but he can’t lose this because she’s smiling distantly, her tired, dark eyes are not exactly there, and the grey clouds above their heads are suffocating him. They haven’t mentioned Marius’ name but he can suddenly feel it creeping above both of their heads even though her _own_ might be free of it. The wine is burning inside of him and his head goes light. His stomach is tied in ropes and breathing becomes an overrated luxury that will take up more energy than the damned sun would give him if it rose in the middle of the night. For a moment there all he can see is that he’s glad that Courfeyrac can’t see him, that Enjolras can’t see him, not because they’d respectively laugh or frown, oh fucked if they would and fucked if he cares. He just knows he’s in pain, sweet _pain_ is all he can feel and it’s an inherent instinct to care for nothing else before preventing his friends from seeing him weak, and torn when it all is his fault.

  
“Hey,” she mutters hoarsely, her breath cold on his skin.

  
“Hey,” he replies, a sigh about which he wants to shove his head against the wall leaving his lips.

  
“Say something,” is all that he says, always smiling, and it’s always, with every word, in every second that the world turns, her.

  
“Your shift starts on midnight, I should probably get you there because your boss is a dick,” is what escapes his mouth, because that’s always _him_.

  
The light that had lit her face drowns away as the rain ceases, as if sucked by the shiny reflection of the cobblestone. They start walking to the Corinthe. She, like a child in denial, kicking rocks with her sandals and losing time inelegantly twirling around every lamppost, a clumsy Cinderella who prefers a pumpkin carriage to a night at a stuffed bar. He, counting every step and losing no time, staring forward with his lips pressed to a tight line, as if trying to block the rain and her earthy scent out of his system. They touch all the time, it’s natural, she doesn’t know how to prevent it, she doesn’t know how he’s burning with fever, how his stomach jumps every time their knuckles brush together or she grips on his arm. Midnight is coming and he loses her as he loses himself.

  
They stop outside the bar, trying to shut the tasteless music away. The street goes quiet, it’s pretty easy a thing to achieve when all you really need is noise. They’re close and sharing every breath. It seems normal to him, like they’ve always been that way. She leans closer, her lips are thick and her ring is shining. There are tiny freckles on the tanned skin of her nose. Her eyelashes are almost non-existent but the angle of her eyebrow is perfect and he wants to trace his thumb over her cheekbones and let his skin whisper things on her own.

  
“Thank you for tonight,” he murmurs, leaning closer, and she slightly steps on her toes.

  
“Don’t be an idiot,” she whispers with a hint of a smile, and her eyelids drift shut.

  
For a tiny second there a beast roars inside him, his chest swells and a violent tremble runs through his spine. His hands are almost there, on the height of her forearms and he can feel the heat radiating from her skin. “Thank you,” she eventually says and their breaths mingle.

  
Combeferre allows his lids to slowly fall shut.

  
And then he turns around and bolts away with his breath caught on his throat as she stands there for a millisecond before bursting into the bar.

  
It’s raining again and his steps fall heavy on the shining cobblestone. The street is empty, the lampposts so neatly piled in two parallel rows and meeting at the end of his eye, like a Brunelleschi prospect study and suddenly he hates the harmony of it all, it isn’t how life is, it is deceitful and disgusting and Combeferre finds himself rolling up his sleeves and kicking a lamppost with a growl. Before he knows it a fist is slammed against a wall, his knuckles burning with warm blood and his vision blurring with pain.  
  
“Good job,” he heaves with his back pressed against the wall. “Good fucking job.”

  
*

  
“Will you kindly explain what the fuck happened to your hand?”

  
No see, he hates it when that happens. It’s not as if Enjolras has nothing else on his mind but to worry about him, showing up at the door at 1AM, soaked wet and with a useless hand.

  
“Nothing happened, it’s just a bruise,” he says wearily, brushing his wrist and collapsing on the couch.

  
Enjolras abandons everything he’s doing and rushes to his side, taking his hand in his own and examining it as if he’s doing to understand anything but the fact that it looks scary. If Combeferre wasn’t, in fact, terribly ashamed, he’d feel extremely touched.

  
When Courfeyrac bursts into the apartment he finds Enjolras patching Combeferre’s hand, both looking at opposite directions with the frowns of a married bickering couple on their faces.

  
“Oh for Mine Own Sake Ferre, who did you punch?”

  
Enjolras gapes in horror. “Did you punch anyone?”

  
“Well of course he did, fricking _Thor_ or something!” Courfeyrac simply shrugs his shoulders before rushing to the kitchen to bring Combeferre some juice and biscuits which, to be honest, is much more comforting than what Enjolras is doing. Courfeyrac then crosses his arms across his chest and sighs gravely. “I thought we were _friends_ ,” he narrows his eyes. “And to do that on my birthday!”  
  
“Courf, for the last time, it’s not your birthday yet, and it hasn’t been for the past twelve days as we have all kept reminding you,” Combeferre explains gently. “You were born in 1:25PM as in tomorrow.”  
  
“Well it is after midnight therefore it officially is my birthday and none of you assholes has congratulated me and offered eternal devotion yet. But,” he holds up a hand at a dismissive, hurt gesture, as Enjolras tries to stand up and pull him into a congratulatory hug, unusually affectionate towards his best friends. “That is not the issue that concerns me the most right now for I have to tell you, Combeferre, that I am terribly insulted.”  
  
“What insulted you, Courf?” sighs Combeferre, sinking deeper into the couch.  
  
“First and foremost, that you got into a fight and didn’t invite me.”  
  
“You were screaming _Yes flower, right there_! for the biggest part of the evening,” Enjolras helpfully provides them. “I highly doubt you'd accept his offer in first place.”  
  
“That,” Courfeyrac points at Enjolras, “is a valid point. Enjolras problematically enough tends to have those, but we love him in spite of that because he’s our darling fearsome dandelion.” Enjolras opens his mouth to protest but Courfeyrac holds up his hand once again. “Secondly, in the name of the Bagel God, Combeferre,” his voice is now hurt and deceived. “I thought we were friends! I honestly don’t know what made you think it’s alright for you to fuck our neighbour all this time and not tell us a thing while you know everything about me and Jehan…”  
  
“We couldn’t help it even if we wanted to.”  
  
“You don’t know my life!”  
  
“Well I pretty much do.”  
  
Enjolras’ alarmed face has somehow flushed bright red. “What neighbour? Combeferre, what is he talking about?”  
  
“No one…”  
  
“Yeah sure so how do you explain that Éponine left her apartment the same time as you did? Gavroche told me everything,” Courfeyrac says gravely, as if he’s revealing the world’s most ground-breaking secret. “There’s no need to hide anymore, Ferre.”  
  
“Listen, Éponine and I just went out for falafels…”  
  
“Yeah right and the punching? Oh dear Bagel Master it’s part of the BDSM process, isn’t it?”  
  
“Courfeyrac…”  
  
“I always knew you were one kinky bastard!”  
  
“COURFEYRAC!” Combeferre takes a deep breath after gaining his friends’ utmost attention. “I didn’t punch any…”  
  
“…Because you obviously didn’t punch Éponine. Hey did anyone tried to mug you and you decided to play it knight in his shiny armor? Because if it was Montparnasse, Bahorel will be more than glad to scrub his balls with sandpaper…”  
  
“If anyone tried to rob us it would be Éponine who’d punch him, to be honest,” states Combeferre, unable to hide a small smile, and Courfeyrac has to stop for a while to acknowledge he’s true.  
  
“You never told me and I feel personally offended for not figuring it out by my stupid self, woe is me this is the worst birthday ever!”  
  
“There is nothing to figure out, I repeat _nothing_.” Combeferre would punch anyone else trying to get Enjolras out of his comfort zone but now, a tiny part of himself knows that he can only be saved if he changes the conversation and drives it to the safer yet much more complicated paths painted with splashes of color on Enjolras’ skin and hair, even though he’s obviously made an attempt to shower.  
  
Courfeyrac’s eyes follow Combeferre's and they remain silent for an awkward moment, because their minds intertwine sometimes and this is hard, I tell you.  
  
“But then again,” starts Courfeyrac, a sinister, wide smile spreading on his puppy-innocent face. “People _do_ have secrets, don’t they?”  
  
“Well, De Gaulle’s Atomic Energy Commissary kept the construction of a bomb secret for over a decade, therefore I don’t see why people can’t have secrets,” Combeferre shrugs his shoulders, perfectly relieved to be over and done with the questioning.  
  
“Did you enjoy painting, Enjo?”  
  
“I did,” the blonde replies defensively, turning around and gathering his notes that had been scattered all over the floor.  
  
“Good,” smirks Courfeyrac.  
  
“Good,” huffs Enjolras dangerously.  
  
“Boys, behave,” Combeferre eyes them warningly.  
  
“But wasn’t me enjoying it the entire _point_?” Enjolras snaps, “Combeferre was convinced I would die from the lack of relaxation and collapse in the middle of the protest.”  
  
“Admit it that’s the only reason you ever hear my advice,” Combeferre tries to hide an affectionate smile. “You’re afraid of actually collapsing in the middle of the protest.”  
  
“Mais bien _sur_ ,” sneers Enjolras sarcastically, pulling a paint stained lock of hair behind his ear. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to bed. Happy Birthday Courf, may you live long and prosper, and also finish all the work I won’t do at your party tomorrow.”  
  
Courfeyrac looks a mixture between satisfied and hurt, so an amused Combeferre stands up and wraps an arm around him. “You should pick him for Grantaire more often if this technique actually sends him to bed.”  
  
“Ah, Enjolras and Grantaire. Fucking…” groans and cringes Courfeyrac, curling in Combeferre’s arms. “Oh Godric,” He sighs gravely and steps away, the hugest, most wicked smile engraved on his face. “You all disgust me so much it's beautiful!”

  
*

  
Every year before Courfeyrac’s birthday Enjolras doesn’t even need to open the mass text he receives to know it will be positively traumatic. Every single year Enjolras wonders whether this is the absolute appropriate moment to become religious and seek assistance from the above, because Courfeyrac is doing A Thing and this year The Thing involves people like Bahorel, Bossuet and Éponine (whom he surely does love) but he has a certain feeling that, without knowing how or why, this Thing has the potential to become even scarier than the Stripper Thing, or the Inflatable Ninja Turtles on top of the Eiffel Tower Thing. No, Enjolras really doesn’t want to remember these incidents that inevitably scarred his troubled past and formed his mature, complex personality to what it’s come to be today. This year Courfeyrac’s Thing thankfully is at Joly and Bossuet’s place as it’s bigger than their own, which means that he won’t have to be the one to deal with potential explosions or basement floods, and he’ll also be able to curl together with his laptop in some dark corner of the room, pretending he’s been abducted and possibly impregnated by alien Sims and forever disappeared.  
  
He’s been miraculously successful so far, so much that he’s started seriously questioning the turn of his luck. He’s given Courfeyrac his present – a set of prints from the Musée de la Révolution française which got him a loud thankful smack on the cheek from his best friend – and then retreated behind the couch, typing frantically on his laptop as if the world is going to end in twenty minutes.  
  
It starts as a fairly decent, almost quiet affair. An overly excited Courfeyrac opens all of his presents on the carpet and leaves squeals of delight. The best so far are definitely a neon pink visor by Bahorel – which Bossuet has already confiscated for his own bald head – and Feuilly’s handmade Harry Potter coming-off-age planet watch which has them all drooling, apart from Marius who asked why he didn’t make Courfeyrac a pretty fan instead since summer is coming, to which they all replied with grave silence until Feuilly cleared his throat and said “that’s because I make motors for _electric_ fans, Marius.”  
  
So the tension after that is so palpable that Marius has to take the cigarette of revelation from Feuilly and then remember he doesn’t smoke, and Éponine finds the opportunity to steal the first bucket of Cheetos as Grantaire sneaks his third beer away. Jehan’s psychedelic music which only renders him comfortable is just making everything worse until there is a ring on the doorbell and Bahorel throws himself up, growling “PIZZA’S HERE!” which catches everyone’s attention and soon they’re fighting like a bunch of angry cats over the last slice which apparently Enjolras decides he really wanted but it’s too late and he had been way too absorbed in responding to important mails but what’s the point in eating pizza if they don’t live in a free country anyway?  
  
“Marius, truth or dare?”  
  
“Truth.”  
  
In Courfeyrac’s Things people inevitably end up playing the most horrifying mixture of party games there is, involving a spinning bottle, a Twister mat and a closet which gives Joly claustrophobia and Enjolras pretends he hasn’t yet noticed that his friends are on a stage of drunkenness where they’ll soon probably start _kissing_ each other and that will make him greatly uncomfortable and he’s 99% positive that soon they’ll start asking each other which is the weirdest place they’ve had sex...  
  
“Which is the weirdest place you’ve had sex?”  
  
There, see? Enjolras could make money out of that, if of course he was one to exploit his love and knowledge for his friends to make profit.  
  
“Bossuet _seriously_? This is Marius we’re talking about…”  
  
There are blond wigs handed out, why is Courfeyrac handing blond wigs out? Are they making fun of Enjolras?  
  
“Looook at meee I’m Pooontmercyyyy, louuuusy wiiith virgiiiiinityyy!”  
  
No, they’re not making fun of Enjolras.  
  
“Actually, your bed.”  
  
Éponine snorts her drink out of her nose, Courfeyrac’s eyes explode out of his face and everyone would swear that Joly had died in his place if it weren’t for his high-pitched voice “Which side?”  
  
“Joly darling, there are no sides, there's three of us,” Musichetta pats him on the shoulder.  
  
“When?” Bossuet chokes behind his pink visor.  
  
“Oh,” Cosette casually examines her nails, looking quite ravenous with her deadly eyeliner and luscious curves wrapped in Bahorel’s leather pants. “Marius honey, was it like, twenty minutes ago?”  
  
“But… but…” Courfeyrac’s whole world seems completely shuttered. “You,” he points at Cosette accusingly, “you were helping with the popcorn… and then Marius… got stuck in the bathroom and you went to…” horror strucks his face together with the realization. “Help him?”  
  
“Nah it was merely an excuse,” explains Marius merrily as if he’s said the most predictable thing in the world and Enjolras swears he’s had too much for this night. Apparently he’s been sitting with his laptop on his knees getting zero work done while scowling at them all this time and, when Bossuet finally breaks the first plate of the day and everyone’s attention is divided, Jehan notices his absence and drags him in the circle with a sinister look on his face.  
  
“It’s okay, I don’t want to play,” he murmurs impatiently, making grabby hands for his confiscated laptop and seriously reconsidering his choices his friends.  
  
“Protests might be your equivalent of partying but baby this party is mine,” Courfeyrac smirks mischievously.  
  
“And this, is my house,” states Musichetta matter-of-factly, busy examining the shape of her nails.  
  
Enjolras huffs as he finds himself sitting cross-legged in a circle between Joly and Combeferre to whom he desperately turns for help but the filthy traitors are seriously discussing a Vodka IV experiment with Bahorel. Courfeyrac shoves a mysterious foggy drink in Enjolras’ hands. “I have your potty training baby photos in my room,” he whispers sweetly in his ear. “Now is the right moment to consider your life choices.”  
  
“I hate you,” growls Enjolras.  
  
“You can’t, it’s my birthday,” croons Courfeyrac before returning to his touch all of his friends’ butts that night while Bahorel is dared to change in Cosette’s pink frilly dress. “Now, who’s ready for an experience beyond any imagination involving my kissing skills from hell?”  
  
“From hell indeed,” murmurs Feuilly sensually behind a silver twirl of smoke, keeping a completely straight face.  
  
“Slow it down baby,” Jehan smiles teasingly though it might come out just a tiny bit cold. “It’s _my_ turn.”  
  
Everyone laughs. Contrary to popular belief Enjolras has been kissed before, several times by Courfeyrac and at least twice by Combeferre. “Combeferre was better,” he says in a completely serious voice, causing half of his friends to choke on their drinks.  
  
“Fuck you,” Courfeyrac gives them a pleasant middle finger, “you all suck.”  
  
Jehan wraps his legs around him on his lap and pulls him for the most graphic drunken kiss that Enjolras has ever seen. “You’re the best, birthday boy,” they hear the poet hum even through the whistling and catcalling until Grantaire starts protesting that his eyes are bleeding and fuck, they’re a quite glorious pair of eyes they are. Enjolras instinctively turns to look at him but Grantaire is not returning the gaze as if he doesn’t even notice his presence in the room. A beer and Éponine are both propped up on his lap and they’re tangled together in a way that makes Enjolras’ chest heavy with what seems to be both their weight. He regrets saying that about Combeferre; Combeferre seems to regret it too, as he doesn’t seem anywhere near drunk enough yet.  
  
“Bahorel, truth or dare?”  
  
“What am I a fucking Gryffindor for?”  
  
“Hey, no Hogwarts house stereotypes are welcome here!”  
  
“Jealous much, Ginge?”  
  
“I’m a Gryffindor too, fuckface.”  
  
“Musichetta, what’s the kinkiest thing you’ve done?”  
  
“Uh, it involves a chandelier?”  
  
“A _what_?”  
  
“Bossuet has a Phantom thing, who am I to deny love?” she shrugs helplessly.  
  
“Prouvaire, what’s Courfeyrac’s dick like?”  
  
“COSETTE!”  
  
“What, I’m just curious!”  
  
“It’s carved from heaven marble and sculpted by angels of the seven skies…”  
  
“That’s enough information for a lifetime Jehan, you pay for my therapist's bill.”  
  
“My dick makes angels weep, everyone.”  
  
“Courfeyrac I don’t care if it’s your birthday but I swear to God this umbrella stand’s gonna end up up your…”  
  
“Bahorel when was the last time?”  
  
“You fuckshit don’t you _dare_ get into this…”  
  
“Because since the last waitress who turned you down…”  
  
“Or the sexy professor who suspended you before you got into her pants because you took selfies in her class with Bossuet…”  
  
“ _Fuck_ your face.”  
  
“Is that what we should wish you?”  
  
“Seriously I don’t care about all your boring sex lives this game fucking _sucks_!”  
  
“Grantaire, truth or dare?” asks Marius and everyone looks up to him to save the situation.  
  
“Truth, I’m still too sober to deal with all your little _imaginative_ epiphanies.”  
  
They all immediately make the same thought, that this is Marius and this game can’t get worse than it already is, he’ll probably ask something about clowns or something and everything will be alright because Pontmercy’s here to save the night…  
  
“Have you ever jerked off to someone in this room?”  
  
Frozen silence falls in the room and suddenly Enjolras realizes he’s downed more than the two drinks that were handed to him, his cheeks are burning and his stomach is pumping rhythmically in the most uncomfortable manner, he shouldn’t have drunk _shouldn’t have drunk_ …  
  
“Nope,” Grantaire says hoarsely, shaking his head in a final way, “just, not happening. I’m not answering this, don’t you fucking dare. Next question…”  
  
“No you must answer…”  
  
“This is against the rules…”  
  
“I don’t give a flying fuck about rules made by Courfeyrac and Bahorel of all people, next question.”  
  
“Okay then, are you more scared of Helena Bonham Carter or gigantic burgers in flip flops?”  
  
The silence that falls now could easily give all the polar bears a new cozy home. Cosette pats her boyfriend slowly on the shoulder. “Marius honey, you’re full of shit.”  
  
“I can see your train of thought when it comes to gigantic burgers in flip flops but Helena Bonham Carter, the epitome of _fucking hell and Lucifer darling, YES_? No offence man, but you’re full of shit.”  
  
“What, she intimidates me!”  
  
“Yeah right, fuck me sideways,” Courfeyrac shakes his hand dismissively in the air while Feuilly and Jehan shoot him a murderous look. “Rules are rules. Have you, or have you not jerked off to someone in this room?”  
  
No one dares to break the silence and Enjolras’ stomach flips again and again, this is bad, he feels so bad for Grantaire because rules are rules, that’s how they’ve always played it but it sucks, it really sucks for someone to have to be in that position, Enjolras needs a drink…  
  
“Yes.” Apparently it comes out harmless enough and they all pretend to have hardly heard the answer at all, they’re just way too absorbed in the immensely interesting shapes of the crisps or in Bossuet’s story about their Cat who goes through an existential crisis thinking that he is a Dog.

Everyone is drunk, like really fucking tipsy yet they all look awkward for some reason, as if worse questions have not already been made and Feuilly quickly hurries to diffuse the tension, passing around the whiskey.  
  
“Courfeyrac, serenade person of your choice with a teen hipster indie ballad.”  
  
Courfeyrac grabs the new ukulele that Jehan got him and lies back against the pillows with a non-ironic look of complete devotion on his face, blowing the smaller man a kiss as he starts strumming.  
  
“Baby put your polka dots on, and the fake tapestry Doc Martens that you own  
Because roadtrips can’t wait and my floral van is in love  
With your lumpy sweaters and your crazy Swing moves  
And I’m jealous oh so jealous cause you look like a kitten when I kiss your nose  
And we sip our fair trade coffee in a way neither Burroughs nor Kerouac knows  
So let’s go on a roadtrip and fuck everything else  
My van may be for two but if you want a threesome  
My Polaroid says yes.”  
  
Éponine imitates a banjo finale while Bahorel finishes with the drums – the DVD player, but Joly will only notice later because now he’s too busy confessing his love to the crepe pan – and Jehan wipes a tear away from his eyes. “This was beautiful, Courf,” he sighs dramatically before pulling him for a kiss and soon everyone else follows their example.  
  
Enjolras has seen his friends drunk but never anything compared to that and never has he been so dizzy and flustered with alcohol to lost half of the contact with what’s going on around him. The bottle spins in the middle of the carpet and there is nothing Enjolras can do about it. The room is spinning too and Courfeyrac’s lips are on his own, his forehead bumps with Marius and he _thinks_ he’s seeing stars but then he actually _does_ because _Feuilly_ and Enjolras almost melts on the carpet as doves of freedom sing in his ears, Joly is giggling against his lips and more drinks are shoved into his hands, drinks that he gravely needs to down because _God_ is the thing Jehan does with his tongue even legal, and should he be _liking_ the fact that Cosette tastes so much of raspberries or that Éponine is biting his lower lip? And then comes Combeferre which always feels wrong, almost incestuous, but Combeferre seems okay with it, apparently there’s not a shade of horrifyingly relaxed that Combeferre does not become when he drinks.  
  
He accepts the drink that Feuilly gives him mostly because right now he’s too dizzy to deny Feuilly anything but at the next moment Feuilly’s wrapped around Bahorel and they’re sharing a cigarette, all smoke and tensed muscles, callused fingers and teeth that clash, and Enjolras is feeling sick to his stomach. Éponine's hands are all over Cosette and Combeferre’s eyes are glowing dangerously, Marius is too busy facing an existential dilemma together with his bottle of ouzo and Courfeyrac gets dared to strip while doing showtunes karaoke so Enjolras can do nothing but wonder where that drink came for and swallow it anyway.  
  
“Enjolras, truth or dare?”  
  
Enjolras and giggles should under no circumstances be put in the same sentence because then everyone will know that the world as they know it has come to an end but the world has probably exploded because _Enjolras giggles_. “Dare?”  
  
“Give Grantaire a lap dance.”  
  
The biggest drawback of being an alcoholic is probably the variety of torturous levels of drunkenness that one has to go through before actually managing to drift into blissful oblivion. Grantaire doesn’t get drunk, he gets _past_ way getting drunk which makes him painfully aware of everything going on around him and intensifies every twitch and every blink until he’s begging to pass out or maybe die right on spot. So he just drinks more and more until he can’t feel anymore, not even the bile coming up this throat. He’s struggled this night, he’s hated his life and then his friends and his life again, seeing everyone get drunk and merry and hot or even weeping uncontrollably and passing out in bathtubs, while he just watched them from a distance and drank, painfully unaffected and hoping to just loosen the fuck up, to have some fun without the ability to form any eloquent thoughts, but then people were kissing him and people were kissing _Enjolras_ like fuck, he never signed up for any of that and his life hurts like fuck, he never signed up for any fucking feelings but his whole being has been trying to explode every time their eyes met and he was so doomed that all he could beg for every time that the bottle spinned was for that wholly different, new Enjolras to snap away from his sight magically and never appear in his miserable excuse of a life again but now their eyes meet and Grantaire dies like the first time in the doorway, like he’ll always die with his wings burnt by the sun.  
  
Enjolras is drunk, God how did they get him that drunk, Grantaire wants to punch all their stupid faces, even Jehan sugaring with Courfeyrac makes him want to vomit _right now_ because can’t they see what they’re doing? This is more fucked up than anything else he can come up with, he can’t think of anything that can’t go wrong with Enjolras giving him a lap dance, his life will end and he’ll have to move out, everything, his most sacred dreams will be violently defiled as they’ll – he’ll – ridicule themselves, Grantaire sometimes really does wonder if his friends ever truly cared for him at all.  
  
Enjolras is apparently not drunk enough to look any less than terrified, but at the same time he’s fucking determined, like he always fucking is for everything that ever passes through his hands –  
  
 _Or thighs_.  
  
“Oh…” he stands up, slightly unstable on his feet. “R,” he says formally, “if you don’t mind…”  
  
Grantaire wants to reply, he really does, but his throat is dry and he can only swallow before slowly trying to nod that yes, he does mind, but it somehow turns to a negative shake and Enjolras is determined, it takes but a firm stride to cross the room and he’s so close that Grantaire can see the bewilderment in his eyes and the way he traces his tongue over his bottom lip in concentration and –  
  
 _Merde_.  
  
Enjolras is bad at this. Like, genuinely bad. The way he hooks his knee around Grantaire’s waist is ungraceful, his shoulders are almost slumped and he’s twerking his hips truly awkwardly and lacking synchronization with Don’t Dream It, Be It. It’s okay, it’s more than expected considering how drunk he is, and how impossibly difficult every single one of their friends is making this, yet the only thing that relieves Grantaire just a bit is that as much as a drunken person can consent, Enjolras does not seem in the least pushed to it or unconscious about what he’s doing, for him it’s just another assignment he’ll easily accomplish and Grantaire wishes, _oh how he wishes_ it could be the same for him, because a bad dancer Enjolras might be, but his breath is hot on Grantaire’s skin and his hands are firm on his waist, his thighs heavy on his lap and wrapped around him and Grantaire would give his life for it to end right now because God his pants are tight and the _room_ is tight around him, and at the same for Enjolras to stay forever in his arms.  
  
It’s not truly exaggerated and it doesn’t last long, they just touch and it’s enough to set Grantaire on fire but then Enjolras stands back and sits on the floor, and a satisfied Jehan spins the bottle.  
  
“Combeferre.”


	12. Morning keep the streets empty for me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "So, we're - uh, supposed to be kissing," Grantaire blurts out, never daring to actually embrace such an absurd excuse of an idea.
> 
> Enjolras nods. "I guess it’s only right."
> 
> "Look," Grantaire sighs gravely, scrubing his face with his palm because he can't do this, he simply can't. He always somehow seems to be finding himself in situations where he looks in Paris reflecting in Enjolras' eyes, and he simply can't, it's too much for him to take because the air is cruelly sucked out of his lungs again. "We, uh... we don't have to do this."
> 
> "No!" Enjolras surprises him, passion always in his breathtaking voice . "It's the rules, we have to go by the rules!"
> 
> "Since when do you go by the rules, Apollo?"
> 
>  
> 
> _Or the one where zero people have sobered up, two people have sex, countless people have senseless snogging sessions, and pretty much everyone has their share of drama._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is neither a chapter for which I am proud but God how I've struggled... It's the end of the term for me and life is totally crazy but I spend it trying to write fanfiction and failing miserably instead of doing something in my life. I'm pretty pissy in case you cannot tell, and that's mostly because I can't write sex yet I want to, I can't write angst yet I want to, and I pretty much can't write shit but I FUCKING WANT TO. So yeah, I'm honestly sorry for all the melodrama, pseudopoetic language and awkward explicitness in this chapter, I just felt like doing it and I know it could have turned out better.  
> Warnings: relatively explicit smut, vomiting, drinking, frottage and stuff  
> Opinions and constructive criticism are always more than welcome.  
> The poem which Jehan recites while he does the do is Litany In Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out by Richard Siken.  
> The song title and all the lyrics in the chapter is by Fever Ray's song.  
> The scene with E and R on the bed was written (and should probably be read) with [The Moonlight Sonata](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nT7_IZPHHb0) on the background (I'm so so sorry Ludwig Van Beethoven I know you didn't have that defilement in your mind) and was inspired by the first scene of this [amazing video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wRYqzIUXi_U#).

_So take me home before the storm_   
_Velvet moths will keep us warm_

She had spent hours, nights fantasizing Marius kissing her.  
  
Marius kissed her tonight. It was an awkward peck that caused both Jehan and Grantaire to freeze in their place and her heart to revolt beneath her breast, nothing that she didn’t know already. It wasn’t bad, or sloppy, or artless. The group’s Disney princess has certainly done a good job with their multilingual squirrel booby . It was just that, no, that kiss didn’t suddenly burst with meaning in Eponine’s life , nor sent a wave of maddening pain through her body. It was just a kiss, a light smooch that didn’t take her breath away more than every hug or handshake they’d shared in the past had done. She’d liked it, sure she’d liked it, but at the same time it was so uncomfortable that for the few seconds that it lasted, she found herself begging for its end. Cosette was smiling at her affectionately in the end as if nothing ground-breaking had taken place between herself and her boyfriend. As for Marius, he seemed so unaffected and unimpressed by it, if not slightly uncomfortable, that something hardened inside her. She hated to say that she sought for distraction, yet she didn’t know what exactly got her after that.  
  
She had spent half her life imagining Marius kissing her, and Combeferre was nothing like that.  
  
It swept her off her feet, maybe because it was the kiss she’d least expected, one she’d hardly ever played in her head in the past, maybe he was skilled or maybe she was just really deprived from anything but alcohol. It was warmer than Marius’ kiss, longer and more practiced, also harsher. It started off as a dare and she doesn’t even know if she’d have wanted it to take place under different circumstances because she’s so shitfaced she can hardly remember her name, and he’s drunk too, but not drunk enough as to forget to ask for her consent first. It just happens so quickly she can hardly remember, but now they’re on somebody’s bed and she can’t blame him for being wrapped all around her body, his hands under her shirt and moving up across the curve of her back because she placed them there, she dragged them in that dark room that belongs to neither and now she’s the one climbed on his lap, breathless and disheveled, her fingers fumbling with the buttons of his shirt.  
  
He breaks the kiss, breathing raggedly against her lips and softly pushing her away. “We must… we must stop. Until we're sober.” His voice is deep and throaty, his glasses somewhere on the mattress and he looks younger and slightly lost in the darkness of the room, yet he’s still beautiful, everything is beautiful about Combeferre and Eponine wants to kiss every shadow and memorize the shape of his nose and the feeling of his lashes fluttering beneath her lips, the slight scruff on his cheeks brushing against her own and the softness of his hair between her fingers. Her body is pounding with anticipation and she just wants him closer so she pulls him against her body, hands wandering on  
warm skin, feeling his frantic heartbeat beneath her palm.  
  
“I want you,” she breathes against his lips, completely ignoring his discomfort, tilting her head back so that he can press his lips right there, on the sensitive skin of her pulsating throat.  
  
If his lips are talented then his hands are a gift to humanity and she can hardly control the husky moans that escape her parted lips as he lies back against the pillows and she bends over him, tracing her nails across his chest. She kisses him again and he responds eagerly, it’s deeper this time, almost demanding, as his tongue explores all of her and his hands rest on the bones of her shoulders, playing with a strand of her dark hair, fiddling with the neckline of her tight top, and she gives permission with something so absurd as a roll of her eyes because yes there’s a reason she’s not wearing a fucking bra so he strokes her ever so carefully. He’s making her feel so wanted at the same time, his hands move all over her yet for the first time in what feels like ages she doesn’t feel exploited or used or bored, or, or… She’s just, not happy, she can’t be happy because right now every other feeling is dulled away by the throbbing of the alcohol in her veins and in their mouth. Still, she’s full. This is what she wants and she knows it better than she knows how to draw her next inhale of oxygen.  
  
They don’t say a word, they just breathe heavily against each other’s lips, taking breaks just for half dead seconds, to drown into each other in the dark, to taste and touch and remember what it feels like to want to be stuck on someone else’s skin forever in a way that feels so healthy it’s insane, to just be held and kissed and treasured.  
Her eyelids flutter and when her eyes get used in the dark she sees that he’s looking back at her bent over him, his hands cupping her face. His thumb traces over her cheekbone and their lips brush together again, blind, featherweight kisses, things she never used to share with people, but then Marius comes in her mind and it’s odd and wrong and sick, her head is throbbing, their teeth are clashing and her fingers dig into the soft curves on his sides, his breath hitches and the pace of their kiss is irregular as his hands start massaging her thighs, pulling her close and Eponine wants this, it’s all that she knows, her fingers reach for the zipper of his pants, feeling how hard he is for her, the dark room is spinning around them and she’s burning with fire…  
  
“Stop,” he pulls back, trying to catch his breath, “please Eponine, I don’t… not like this…”  
  
“What, like, we could go get married first, suits you better?” her voice comes out merely like a groan, she doesn’t even recognize it and it drives her back to days that she’d rather forget.  
  
“No,” his own voice is soft, reminding her nothing of the harsh kisses they’d been exchanging only seconds ago. Firm hands grab her waist and help her sit up, deftly raising his own weight against the pillow. “Nothing of that sort, I just know you need some time…”  
  
“I don’t…”  
  
“Listen to me please,” he’s somehow managed to collect himself and she’s so dizzy she’ll collapse into his arms, no she fucking mustn’t just focus the fuck on a dark spot on the wall… “You’re drunk. We both are and you may not think this needs thought but I don’t want to regret anything tomorrow, and even if I won’t I’m not sure if you will…” she snorts impatiently and pushes his chest back against the pillows, but he grabs her wrists between his fingers and softly pushes them away. “I won’t take advantage of it, this matters to me, okay?” his voice is mellow and soft in her ears, like a rhythmic lullaby that shouldn’t be making her so sick to her stomach. “You kissed him, you’ve had enough for tonight and I don’t want this now, okay? You’re wonderful, I promise you’re truly wonderful but we you have to listen to me now...”  
  
Her eyes are glassy, she can feel them glassy because the world looks glassy through them. He keeps speaking yet it is but a dull buzzing in her ears that makes her head throb even more and the world spinning deliriously. She feels him letting go off her wrists and then wrapping his arms surely around her. “Eponine?” Her head feels light, his voice comes from a distance. He slightly shakes her shoulders and that’s bad, a very bad idea indeed because she loses the world beneath her feet and, next thing she can remember is emptying the contents of her stomach on the floor as he holds her hair away from her face and, for the first time in a row of painful, eternal moments, she can’t feel anything.  
  
“Stay?” she hears herself croaking as she sips the water from a glass that has somehow magically appeared in his hands after she opens her eyes, shaking like a leaf in his arms.  
  
“I’m here,” he kisses her hair, and the room goes dark.

  
  
_*_   
  
_Memory come when memory's old_   
_I am never the first to know_

The living room is barricaded with all the furniture, blankets and cushions and, one could say that the living room is also bombarded. Musichetta's bra is somehow hanging from the lamp on the ceiling, discarded, questionable pieces of clothing are thrown all over the floor, and no surface is clean from chips, pizza boxes and beer bottles. Cat is desperately seeking for shelter on the highest bookshelf, inspecting at the mayhem caused by those possessed humans with utter horror.  
  
They're playing Seven Minutes in Heaven, everyone past the point of drunkenness. Marius is constantly looking like a deer caught in traffic lights, rambling something in Portuguese with teary eyes. As for Feuilly, he's shoved Bahorel in the broom closet and they're both busy producing sounds that make everyone uncomfortable.  
  
"Come on, this is stupid. We can't even look," Jehan's foot lazily pokes Courfeyrac's thigh. "This low quality porn audio will never end and I've started getting bored. Let's spice this game up."  
  
Courfeyrac looks positively distressed in a minute or so, as the remaining players on the circle stare at him with expectation, absolutely hating any of his parties to actually need a push to be spiced up. Then, his face is instantly dangerously illuminated with mischief. Joly and Bossuet both try to snort back their giggles when their gazes follow his own.  
  
Both Grantaire and Enjolras are ridiculously drunk. Enjolras is a particularly captivating sight, scowling and pouting and growling at an obscenely snarky Grantaire. They're bickering like an old married couple for one thing or another and are on the verge of punching each other's throats.  
  
"No Courf," Joly squeaks.  
  
"YES Courf!" Courfeyrac shouts triumphantly, throwing himself up and communicating with Jehan with a single glance.  
  
"Your turn," Jehan takes both Enjolras and Grantaire by surprise when he grabs their shirts and pulls them towards the direction of the fire escape.  
  
"What?" Enjolras growls, trying to free himself from the terrifying creatures in which his best friend have magically turned.  
  
"You guys are the absolute worst," croaks Grantaire murderously in Jehan's face.  
  
"Yes, but you love us," chants the poet.  
  
"Out with you," Jehan croons, pushing them out with a strength that does on no account correspond to his delicate, petit build.  
  
"Seven minutes," Courfeyrac explains merrily, throwing himself to the other side of the room in nothing but the leopard boxers to which he's stripped and locking the door behind them, looking perfectly satisfied with himself.  
  
Grantaire needs a minute for his throbbing head to process exactly what is happening because everything is pretty vague and absolutely nonsensical. For a minute or two he considers panicking. He's locked out in the middle of a dark night, in a tiny fire escape with Enjolras who's already shivering at the unexpected chill.  
  
"It's cold," he says.  
  
"As balls," Grantaire adds, trying to soothe the thundering of his heart against his ribcage. They stand like that in the tiny metal balcony on top of the escalators, the few distant lights of the city reflecting in their eyes. Finally Grantaire regains his composure and takes off his olive green hoodie, wrapping it around Enjolras' thin shoulders. The man stares back at him with cherry lips half parted in what, in a parallel universe, could pass as awe.  
  
"Look," Enjolras slurs with a voice that Grantaire doesn't thing he can ever get used to, "sorry for what happened inside. I mean, for dancing on your lap."  
  
It all comes out so blatant that it almost sounds surreal, especially spoken in the most serious, formal voice by the marble bearer of Liberty.  
  
"It's not your fault. Courfeyrac will pay one day."  
  
"I can sneeze on his bowtie," Enjolras pouts.  
  
Oh. Great. Go ahead and be a precious little flustered dandellion, so that Grantaire needs to drink the entire Seine in alcohol.  
  
"Easy, tiger," Grantaire rolls his eyes which is a bad idea because he's in the fucking sea of topaz and his _head_ is rolling too, only underwater. "So, are we - ugh, supposed to be kissing?" he clears his throat but in vain, never daring to actually embrace such an absurd excuse of an idea.  
  
Enjolras nods. "I guess it’s only right."  
  
"Look," Grantaire sighs gravely, scrubing his face with his palm because he can't do this, he simply can't. He always somehow seems to be finding himself in situations where he looks in Paris reflecting in Enjolras' eyes, and he simply can't, it's too much for him to take because the air is cruelly sucked out of his lungs again. "We, uh... we don't have to do this."  
  
"No!" Enjolras never fails to surprise him with his determination. "It's the rules, we have to go by the rules!"  
  
"Since when do you go by the rules, Apollo?" Grantaire asks hoarsely.  
  
"Since..." There is a pregnant pause. Grantaire can't see it in the dark, but he can hear the tip of Enjolras' foot fidgeting with the floor. "Since equality demands so..." the man replies seriously, and it's as if he can see the way his voice falters instead of hearing it, breaking through the dizzy darkness. "I was very distressed, Grantaire. I thought I wouldn't kiss you," he makes a step closer and Grantaire's heart skips several beats, his head is spinning and he's close to the edge of the balcony, maybe he should just throw himself over because he's falling anyway, deep into Enjolras' gaze, who grabs his shoulders and shakes him and Grantaire swallows with a dry throat and _how he'd like a drink_. "You know, égalité and the like," Enjolras' voice is husky yet determined, the others can probably hear them from the inside. Scratch that, they can _definitely_ hear them. Grantaire can swear upon his life that they've all stuck their ears on the door. "Why didn't you kiss me, Grantaire? Am I not kissable?" Enjolras might be... is he fucking _pouting_? "You hate me, don't you? I know you hate me..."  
  
Grantaire has nothing to reply to that because he can hardly speak at all, he just stares at him and at the darkness of the moon above their heads, jealous of the beauty that no one else can possess but the God cradling his forearm.  
  
"Because I think I hate you," Enjolras slurs. "I kinda hate... your eyes?"  
  
"Oh, so you um... hate my eyes," croaks Grantaire breathlessly.  
  
"They're... weird."  
  
"Uh, cool, I'll try wearing sunglasses..."  
  
"No but like, they're _so blue_ and... and they do things to me," his fingers grip tighter on Grantaire's arms and he can't breathe, _he can't_. "I hate when your eyes do things to me, _fuck Grantaire_ , I just, _I don't know_!"  
  
And then their lips meet, and Grantaire's conscience - or lack of - dissolves into a million drunken little stars above their heads. It's slow at first, curious and breathless. Enjolras' hands are on his face, his thumb shakily stroking Grantaire's cheek. His lips are soft and warm and so fucking sweet, brushing against Grantaire's skin, his mouth parting to hesitantly take more of him in and taste the thrill in his heavy sighs. It becomes strenuous as they swallow each other's breath, it's all tongues, lazy and wet and _hot_. Fingers are thrown between tangled curls, feet stumble against the steps of the ladder. They knock their foreheads together and their noses bump, everything around them is a buzzing vertigo, Paris has gone silent and their feet don't touch the grille of the fire escape as Grantaire dies again and again _and again_ , tasting the dazed intimacy in every blissful hum falling from Enjolras' soft lips. He feels his whole body melting, relaxing in Enjolras' arms as the world around him bursts in blinding light. His arms which, until that point had been awkwardly hanging on his sides, are thrown around Enjolras' shoulders and pull him closer so that he can feel his heart thunder through their bodies.  
  
And then the door opens, people are laughing and buzzing in the room but Grantaire can't hear a thing, Enjolras stumbles away from the kiss, sucking all the air from Grantaire's lungs. "I need to pee," he blurts dizzily, and bursts into the room.  
  
When Grantaire manages to enter the living room, everyone's pretty much passed out. Feuilly is sprawled over Bahorel's chest in the middle of the carpet, snoring blissfully. Musichetta has Joly curled on her own shoulder and Cat curled on her other. As for Marius, he's on top of a pillow fort, drooling on Cosette's lap and spooning with Bossuet, whose legs are hanging from the couch in the most unorthodox position.  
  
"Leave me alone I say, I'm _fine!_ " he can hear Enjolras whine from a distance. The room goes blurry as someone bumps into something, causing Cosette and Bahorel to growl in their sleep and throw cushions at all different directions, and Grantaire decides to pass out on the stairs.

  
  
_*_   
  
_There is room in my lap_   
_For bruises, asses, hand claps_

"I haven't been so drunk since Leonardo lost the last Oscar," Courfeyrac snorts with laughter, taking the wine from Jehan's hand and passing him his cigarette.  
Jehan is just as drunk as he is silent.  
  
There is a rooftop and stars. The sky is clear and the breeze fresh on their cheeks. There is a blanket and wine, there are strawberries and there is barefoot Jean Prouvaire with Margaery Tyrell hair and the tightest jeans in existence, and then there are his ribs, rising and falling with every breath, prominent and visible through the gigantic sleeveholes of his loose tank top, every inch of which Courfeyrac wants but he doesn't dare. There is everything he'd ever wish for on his birthday yet something makes him sad. Maybe it's just the alcohol he's consumed, but then again he has everything and at the same time it's out of reach. Jehan is beautiful and distant, his lips blurred behind the haze of silver smoke twirling between them, his eyes narrow and lost in the constellation of the city lights beneath their feet. They're holding hands but they're not talking, and that upsets Courfeyrac. A lot.  
  
He nuzzles his nose in the crook of Jehan's neck and their legs tangle together to huddle for some warmth. He had been in nothing but a pair of leopard boxers, and even though they were both completely wasted, they managed to grab a blanket and a dress from Musichetta's wardrobe that Courfeyrac slipped over him to hide away in their friends' rooftop and celebrate the rest of his birthday with the love of his life. "Talk to me," Courfeyrac mutters.  
  
His reply comes fast and unexpected, almost blunt. "Truth or Dare, Courfeyrac?"  
  
"Dare," Courfeyrac practically purrs, pressing a kiss on an ancient purplish mark above Jehan's collarbone.  
  
Jehan takes in a long drag of his cigarette with a sound that seems to break through the sky. "Be mine."  
  
Courfeyrac finds it hard to understand Jean Prouvaire sometimes, but these are the most captivating moments that drown him deeper into the dark lake of this magical dream, and he never wants to wake up. "But I am yours, flower," he frowns, wrapping his arms around Jehan, who takes a moment before smiling faintly and leaning against him. "I've been yours since the moment I met you!"  
  
Jehan presses the butt of the cigarette on the floor until it burns out, and finally turns to look at Courfeyrac with dangerously glowing dark eyes that make his heart catch in his chest. "You always try to _talk_ about this," he says with no poison in his voice that comes out mellow and deepened by the alcohol, a tender caress against his entire, melting being. "This isn't about words and... and this isn't about you. This is a dare, my love," Courfeyrac's drunken heart jumps violently in his chest and he feels his eyes slide shut in bliss. "Show me we're brave enough for this."  
  
He doesn't understand shit, he won't lie about that. All he wants to say, to vomit is the truth. To shower, _lavish_ Jehan's existence with it, a truth that's entirely new for him, a thing so strange and surreal, the riot taking place in his chest on the cold bricks of a rooftop, beneath the biggest moon he's ever felt veiling him. "You're so wonderful when you're drunk, do you know that?" he leans in to capture Jehan's soft lips. They taste of smoke and alcohol and magic dust. A shiver runs through his spine and for a second or a thousand, he's in a dark, fairytale meadow instead of the middle of the noisy city. "I'll prove you we're brave," he says confidently, passionately in the way he always does.  
  
Jehan's lips feel paralyzed against Courfeyrac for a while. They hold their breaths and look around. The rooftop in Joly's building is not mansard. There's a high brick fence, sheltering them from everything but the moon. Then Jehan kisses him back, fingers thrown into his hair, teeth tugging on his lips, tongues dancing together frantically. The brunet gasps against his lover's mouth, wrapping his arms around him and faltering lying down. "Talk poetry to me," he moans against his lips as a ravenous Jean Prouvaire presses his chest flat against the warm blanket and unzips his clothes with shaky fingers. Courfeyrac is already dizzy from hyperventilation and, before he knows it, Jehan has climbed atop of him in all his naked glory, his thighs wrapped around his shoulders. Courfeyrac emits a needy hiss as his fingers dig deep into the soft flesh, manoeuvring Jehan's buttocks so that he can wrap his wet lips around the head of his cock.  
  
Jehan doesn't even try to swallow his moans and Courfeyrac fills his mouth with all of him, his tongue lavishing him with devoted passion. Jehan's fingers are carded in his hair and he can feel his mouth vibrating with need around his skin.  
  
"Stop _fuck Courf... stop_!" Jehan pants, fingers digging deep into the skin of Courfeyrac's shoulders as he pulls away from his mouth. "I want to fuck you tonight," he breathes on his skin, climbing down of Courfeyrac and shoving his hand under the dress, in the waistband of his underwear. Courfeyrac gasps with a tremble as Jehan starts stroking him with an incorrigible mess of pace, eliciting a cry. " _Yes, I_..." he leans forward to kiss him full open mouthed, sloppy and mad, teeth clashing together with revolting heartbeats. "I want to hear you scream my name..."  
  
"Oh _ye-es_ _Jehan_!" Courfeyrac is panting, an expression of the most sacred pain on his face as he literally sees stars because they're doing this on a fucking rooftop. "Yes - fuck..."  
"I’m not the dragon... I’m not the princess either..." Jehan starts hushing Courfeyrac with poetry, on his salty neck shining with sweat, and on his thirsty mouth. His voice is hoarse and sure this time, burning through Courfeyrac's chest and pulsating abdomen. "Who am I?... I'm just... - uh, _a writer_... I write things down... I walk though your dreams and invent - the future..."  
  
Courfeyrac grabs a fistful of braided hair and growls, pulling Jehan for another kiss. "Oh Jehan you... you're so - _fuck hot_ , look ah-at you..." he trembles beneath his lover's weight, lips struggling together. Jehan's hair falls in frizzy, moonlit flames all over the toned muscles of his shoulders as he supports his weight on Courfeyrac's chest, aligning their bodies together. His eyes are dark and glinting wickedly and Courfeyrac can never break his gaze away from him.  
"I sink the boat - of love..." he buries his teeth in Courfeyrac's pulse point, sucking a dizzying bruise, "but that comes - ah, later... And yes I swallow glass," a muffled, throaty growl, "but that... comes later..."  
  
Courfeyrac's body jolts, blindly seeking for as much friction as possible. " _Please_ , Jehan!"  
  
He's on his knees every fiber of his body that hasn't yet turned numb, aching for relief. Jehan's lithe fingers are buried knuckle deep inside of him, working him open with frantic, almost spasmodic motions. Courfeyrac can feel his tongue carving wet lines just across his spine, where his entire being will shiver violently when met with the seductive breeze flowing above of them. Courfeyrac's breath comes out tremulous and harsh, his chest almost touches the hard bricks in the fresh bouts of orgasmic bliss. "And the part where I push you," Jehan's lips are peppering Courfeyrac's shoulder blades with kisses and words that land, dishevelled and hot somewhere in between his heartstrings. "Flush against the wall and... every part of your... body...", and Jehan doesn't need to speak much poetry tonight because he's writing poetry on the sky instead, a meadow of writhing stars reflecting in the splendour of his dark eyes, "rubs against the bricks..."  
  
"Of fuck _fuck_ \- flower you... uh're... you're _killing_ me..." Courfeyrac moans in a shattered voice, so Jehan simply presses his warm body against the curves of Courfeyrac's hips, their thighs tangling together. They linger like that for a tantalizing hint of eternity, Jehan's hands pressed almost suffocatingly against Courfeyrac's thrumming heart. "Shut up," he breathes huskily upon his pulse point and on the corner of his mouth, the most tender, chaste kisses akin to those of a rose stripped of its thorns. Courfeyrac can feel the poet's lips pressed into a rapturous smile upon his skin as he eases himself inside him.  
  
The world stops in darkness for a minute, and then bursts in the pit of Courfeyrac's chest in all the colors they can ever share.  
  
"I'm... getting to it," gasps Jehan as he thrusts inside him in the most dizzying melody of boundaries that revolt against being set because they are one, that's the natural state of Jehan's ribs on Courfeyrac's spine, of his nails scraping the soft skin of his back, of their lips swallowing dream after dream.  
  
Jehan is different tonight, savage and wicked, and Courfeyrac is mercilessly drowning into pure, divine ecstasy, because he loves him, he loves every shade of Jean Prouvaire that rouses the beauty that lies in a stupor somewhere between their joining fingers and he willingly surrenders to the liberation of their sweaty palms clasping so tightly that their knuckles hurt and the blood in their veins flows through skin. Courfeyrac's limbs go numb as the poet's name escapes his lips and their frantic heartbeats entwine.  
  
"Happy birthday love," Jehan kisses Courfeyrac's weary skin tenderly, and brushes the wild dark locks off his clammy forehead.  
  
That night they sleep shoved hard against each other, yet their dreams fall apart somewhere around dawn.  
  
 _You will be alone always, and then you will die.  
_

_*_   
  
_Uncover our heads and reveal our soul_   
_We were hungry before we were born_

He’s drunk, finally as drunk as he strove to be for a lifetime or more, but at the same time he isn’t because being drunk on the moon and in the darkness of a room that is not his own does not count now, does it?  
  
He doesn’t have the faintest idea of how or when he stumbles upstairs and throw his exhausted body over a bed that does not belong to him, next to someone already fast asleep on his stomach, who leaves a sigh that’s almost inhuman just because it’s _so human a thing_ , and Grantaire feels smothered in the darkness, as if Enjolras' weight, the weight of a heavy God is pressed over his chest, when it really isn't.

He remembers Enjolras' words about they kiss they shared, he wonders how this is okay, how this is equal. He remembers walking through Bouguereau's section at the Orsay together. It wasn't only pale nymphs and curvy Venuses. There was a painting that had stricken him so painfully, that had caused his breath to hitch.The black, inhuman wings, spread over his body. A white veil that brought the redemption of the end he had tried to believe in all along. Marble skin, golden hair, and beneath, just darkness. Pale, rotten darkness of a corps that waited to be forever silenced with the white veil of redemption.

 _Egalité devant la mort._  
  
Grantaire falls asleep.  
  
He wakes up not from a dream but _into_ it, gasping and throwing himself from the pillow, feeling woefully sober. He lets his weight fall back against the mattress and he lies there still, listening to Enjolras tossing and turning around in his sleep, his head softly touching the pillow, to the soft creases of the sheets and the faint cracking of the bed beneath his weight, a body lying next to his own, an incorrigible mess of words he wants to whisper pounding through his veins to the beat of his pulse. There’s no other way, it’s no big deal, it’s just happening because it needs to happen, Enjolras probably doesn’t even think about it, Enjolras is blissfully asleep.  
  
Enjolras hates him, it's patently obvious and he didn't even need to say to pull Grantaire out of the torture of going through life with their heads parted by a thin cement wall. Yet Enjolras admitted it himself. And what if he did? What did that even change? Grantaire is a damned man.  
  
They’re lying next to each other now, Grantaire is permitted to this even after having defiled the divine marble, he can hear Enjolras’ soft, steady breathing falling out of his lips, he can hear the sound of the sheets that get to touch the beloved body with every slight movement that Enjolras makes against the mattress, every slight twitch of his foot tangled between those sheets, every readjustment of his arm, wrapped around his pillow. The Enjolras’ body is radiating warmth and his breathing, oh God his _breathing_ because Beethoven would have given up every note and every key of the piano forte if it were to write a Moonlight Sonata with these warm exhales, so peaceful and calm, so different from those of a man ready to set the world aflame.  
  
It’s too dark at first. Grantaire can’t see a thing, it’s just blackness and breaths, falling evenly one after the other while he holds his own because he doesn’t dare disturb any of this. Then he gets used to it, he starts seeing the shapes of the ceiling, the shades and lights of the cars at the street every now and then. The moon is entering through the open window, covering his belly with its silver veil and he can only imagine the garish way it dares to embrace the angel sleeping next to him because he doesn’t dare look.  
  
He hates this, he hates it with all the strength of his being because he’s going to die, he knows he is because he’ll never fall asleep. He’ll just die again and again but he needs to fall asleep because he can’t bear to spend a night so close yet so far, all those hours, all those minutes, those tantalizing _seconds_. He knows that sleep won’t take him if he lays on his back like that, still and frozen like a statue in order to not disturb the sleeping form next to him. He never falls asleep on his back and he knows he has to, otherwise he won’t make it through the night.  
  
He holds his breath as he carefully rolls on his side, placing one arm under the pillow and holding the other bent as close to his body as he can. Enjolras is lying on his side as well, his back turned to him and they’re closer than it ever felt possible. Grantaire can’t take in any amount of air because then Enjolras will feel his breath brushing on the nape of his neck and when did Grantaire’s eyesight become so good in the dark, since when can he see the tiny fair hairs on Enjolras’ nape and the bones of his spine peeking underneath his moon kissed curls?  
  
He can’t see his full form but Grantaire knows that Enjolras has his arms bent and his fists pulled close to his face, youthful and chaste, a Virgin worthy only of Caravaggio's lighting and Michelangelo's mallet. He’s curled up in a fetal position and everything inside Grantaire is aching so much, aching to touch him, to rest his hand on the curve of his delicate waist, to stroke those silver locks, to run the back of his hand over his bare arm and feel him shiver in his sleep, to trace his fingertips on the small of his back, just over his t-shirt. He shuts his eyes tightly as if that’s going to shove the thoughts away but Enjolras is still only an inch away from him, the warmth of his body is still travelling through the mattress and inside his own, the sound of his breath is still taking his own away and Grantaire can’t open his eyes, he can’t…  
  
He’s almost dozing off again when his own arm falters away a bit and his knuckles touch a bare spot on Enjolras’ nape, causing the short curly hair that is there to rise even in their stupor. The feeling of skin on skin immediately throws his eyes open, his eyelashes not heavy anymore, his lids not drooping. He muffles a curse in his pillow but Enjolras doesn’t flinch, he’s asleep and he hasn’t felt anything.  
  
It’s only after a few seconds, that Enjolras stirs next to Grantaire who opens his eyes again. Enjolras changes position in his sleep, curling further into Grantaire’s figure, his hair making sounds against the pillow, his back curving, his spine closer to Grantaire’s face…  
  
He’s finally feeling peaceful, he’s almost getting used to it and he’s dozing off again, even with the scent of the clean softener on the fabric of Enjolras’ t-shirt filling his mind. It’s a state between dreams and reality, where tranquillity comes heavy and unusual and _cherished_ , in the form of a few piano notes or maybe the sound of the moon as it travels on their bodies. It’s then when Enjolras rolls just slightly, still on his side but his back closer to the mattress, resting upon Grantaire’s forehead, his elbow on his shoulder, they’re touching, it’s inevitable and Grantaire doesn’t dare to open his eyes, not now because he’s dreaming, he surely must be, they’ve touched before and they’ve touched much more than that, they’ve lapdanced and kissed and they’ve even slept in the same bed in the past but it’s different tonight. Grantaire opens his eyes slowly, parting his lips to take a harsh breath, one he’s deprived himself from for so long. He’s still keeping his hand close to his own body, until he can’t anymore and it’s spreading over Enjolras’ chest, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply the scent of Enjolras’ neck so close to him, all over the pillows, all over the room. He’s in a state of trance and he doesn’t even control his fingers that come to rest on Enjolras’ chest, just over his heart, palm spreading against the man’s creased t-shirt, taking in the steady beat.  
  
Enjolras doesn’t stir and Grantaire takes another greedy breath, his own heart ready to explode from his chest as his hands moves slowly to the man’s golden locks, touching them hesitantly at first, experimenting, asking for permission, a permission he sorely needs but cannot obtain, yet the way that Enjolras stirs in his sleep and leans into the touch is permission enough and Grantaire somehow feels assured. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, it’s beyond him as it has forever been. He tenderly strokes Enjolras’ hair before he lowers his shaky hand to touch his cheek, just with the tips of his fingers at first, then cupping the smooth skin, unable to exhale as he gets to know every inch of that skin from the very beginning.  
  
Enjolras rolls slightly, leans into the touch, curls further into Grantaire’s arms with a sigh and wraps his own round the man’s shoulders. A hand comes to rest on the curve of his neck and conform to its shape, it’s just for this once and then he’ll never have him again, he’ll never get to touch him, it aches so much yet Grantaire has permission for tonight, he knows he has it and he’s willing to put up with the insufferable pain of eternal solitude if it is to touch him just for tonight.  
  
He can’t think straight anymore as his hand travels all over Enjolras’ chest, on his back and between his shoulder blades, fingers tracing circles on the cool skin of his arm, always so chastely, almost with reverence, as if Enjolras is carved from the most fragile porcelain and Grantaire is the artist who bows at his feet, at a perfection he’ll never be able to reach or to otherwise create. Grantaire memorizes how warm Enjolras feels beneath his fingertips and how he looks at the moonlight, and then Enjolras opens his eyes, and it’s slow, so slow that Grantaire dies and then he doesn't, several times during the process.  
  
He holds his breath again because Enjolras’ eyes are glistening in the black room and staring at him with gentleness between several blinks. Grantaire doesn’t know what’s going through his brilliant mind, all he can swear, even if he’s still dreaming, is the faint hint of a smile in them.  
  
 _Sorry_ , Grantaire’s eyes say. _Don’t_ , those of Enjolras’ reply, and before he knows it his hand is back on Enjolras’ cheek, whose hand is in Grantaire’s hair, stroking his untamed curls, lowering to cup his cheek, his neck, softly cupping his shoulders and Grantaire’s fingertips are stroking his beautiful face again, and just like that they’re touching each other, drinking in all the features and the blinks of his eyes, the breaths that they both hold back from their lips because this feels sacred and they don’t dare disturb it. Their eyes don't abandon each otheras Enjolras’ fingers touch Grantaire’s scruffy chin, rest on his pulse point, trace the bone on his cheek, his forehead, the elegant curve of his nose.  
  
Grantaire shuts his eyes and draws a breath sharper than he’d wished, lips half parted. His own shaky fingers touch Enjolras’ forehead with adoration, his thick eyelashes as Enjolras slowly shuts his eyes for him until he reaches for his lips, tracing their outline before Enjolras presses the softest of kisses on his fingertips and Grantaire thinks he’s perishing.  
  
“No,” Grantaire finally hisses in the dark because they’re drunk, they both are and they know it but Enjolras hushes him, not by placing a finger on the cynic’s lips, but by taking his finger between his own lips, the tip of his tongue just tracing over sensitive skin, causing Grantaire’s breath to hitch on his throat. Enjolras doesn’t break eye contact, eyes lulled to sleep yet still open, fixed into Grantaire’s as he takes another finger in his hot, wet mouth and Grantaire can’t breathe.  
  
It’s painful, every fiber of his being is in fatal pain, because he’ll never have this again, he’s dreaming and he’s about to wake very soon, he’ll never be graced again with his touch, and then Grantaire chokes on a quiet sob. One of Enjolras’ hands is on his chest, the other cupping his cheek as they tilt their heads closer, leaning further into the pillows with a faint sound, foreheads coming to meet.  
  
It’s for tonight, it’s only now and never again, he can deal with the pain, he’ll embrace the Renaissance without ever bidding the recurrent darkness goodbye.

The whole of Grantaire’s body is shaking as Enjolras touches him. “May I?” he breathes, “please.” Without a response, Enjolras leans closer and Grantaire finds himself shakily breathing every word in his mouth. “Please…”  
  
His eyelids slide shut as their lips brush together in the same manner, slowly, like an experiment, like a magical piano symphony, getting to know each other – all of each other – before relaxing into their first real kiss and leaning closer, hands on faces, fingers in hair, arms draped around pulsating bodies.  
  
The world has stopped turning around them, it’s just the swelling of their lips, the fire of their skin, a world which has exploded as they both taste the moonlight off of each other. Their chests are pressed together, vibrating, Grantaire's fingers tugging on Enjolras’ t-shirt whose hand travels beneath the fabric of his own and he can feel his warm palm on the small of his back…  
  
The kiss breaks abruptly and they both lie in the dark, staring at each other half in horror half in need, breathing raggedly. “Sorry,” Grantaire almost gasps in a quiet voice, “god I’m _sorry_ …”  
  
“Kiss me,” Enjolras can only sigh, his wet, full lips half open, need glowing in his dozing eyes.  
  
They’re touching each other everywhere, doing their best to keep as quiet as possible, aware of their friends' presence, sleeping in the nearby rooms, only the sound of their labored breathing and that of the sheets beneath their bodies audible, mingled with the violent pounding of their entwined hearts. “Oh Grantaire…” sighs Enjolras against his lips as they part and Grantaire, his expression that of complete, absolute pain, presses his mouth on the curve of Enjolras’ throat, slowly biting a bruise on the alabaster skin.  
  
The blonde’s hands tug demandingly on the hem of his t-shirt and they both fight with the fabric that’s sticking on their sweaty skin. When they’re half naked they press their bodies together again, every hollow and every curve fitting perfectly. Enjolras barely holds back a moan at the intimate contact, running his hands up and down Grantaire’s back and almost drawing blood with his nails as Grantaire tastes the skin of his throat and of his chest, taking a nipple between his lips, licking and biting softly. “Apollo,” sighs Grantaire on his chest and for once Enjolras does not react to that, “oh my God _Apollo_ …”  
  
Grantaire’s thighs hook around Enjolras’ hips, he’s doing all that he can to feel him as close as is possible. There are still some clothes, rude and obscene, and they fight with fierce determination and subtler results. Grantaire’s limbs are already shaky, his head light and dizzy, his whole body throbbing with desire. “I _need_ you,” Enjolras sighs deeply and Grantaire can only swallow a moan when Enjolras’ thigh starts rubbing against his throbbing erection, over his jeans. He’s already gasping for air, his hands reaching for Enjolras’ hips and pulling him closer, touching as much as he can without having enough time to get rid of their pants. He rubs the prominent bulb that’s pressing against Enjolras’ leggings because _God of course he’s been wearing leggings all along it’s still Enjolras the fearsome revolutionary dork, isn’t it?_ , he can feel him, all of him separated only by a cruel layer of lycra, he rubs and strokes him while freckling his shoulders with kisses, sloppy and noisy and tender. His whole body tenses and relaxes again, he muffles his moans in the hollow of Enjolras’ collarbone. Enjolras grinds against him again, grinding their bodies together, rubbing and touching him everywhere they can reach until everything goes black and they spill in their pants as quietly as it is humanly possible, one coming after the other before collapsing back against the mattress, Grantaire’s lips lingering on the crook of Enjolras’ neck who has his arms draped around his shoulders, holding him on his chest. They’re breathing heavily, not daring to move against the sheets for another time. Grantaire shuts his eyes tightly, so tightly that he falls in a haze of grey kaleidoscopic shapes.  
  
When he opens his eyes Enjolras is already asleep. Soon, his own breathing grows even.


	13. I was happy in the haze of a drunken hour but heaven knows I'm miserable now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **[francebeforepants, 19:02]** You there?  
>  **[francebeforepants, 19:04]** I've been looking for you all day  
>  **[francebeforepants, 19:05]** We need to talk  
>  Enjolras has spent enough time finding excuses.
> 
>  
> 
> _Or the one where everyone’s sad and no one deserves it (or well, almost)._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh I know you’re bored of seeing myself saying that I hate most of my chapters but I’m being perfectly honest, I just don’t feel well about any of my latest chapters and it’s quite frustrating. I don’t know what’s got him, I’m not at all satisfied with everything that comes out of my keyboard anymore but I really hope it’s just a phase. You probably want to strangle me right now for being so annoying but listen here, this is the worst fucking chapter I think I’ve written lately, okay? I just won’t feel well with myself if I don’t apologize for it so I do it. It’s a filler chapter and I hate filler chapters and I hate unnecessary drama but sometimes I write it and I don’t even write it well so here’s a shitload of cliché, ridiculously Frenchified, unnecessary drama for you.  
> I’m on vacation since yesterday because my exams just finished and I literally sleep all day. The sea’s lovely but the sun’s making me feel funny and I have no Wi-Fi which is so UGH. I spend my day thinking of how useless I am for not having already written a couple of chapters or read a book or two but I guess someone should keep reminding me that I’m on fucking holiday. Ugh, I guess I’ll get used to it.  
> Here’s some Jehan/Grantaire with a touch of Eponine because I feel that the dynamics of those two are so important to me, and some sad baby Courfeyrac who’s done nothing to deserve this.  
> The title is from The Smiths’ Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now and the poem in italics is the continuation of Richard Siken’s .  
> Thank you for coping with me, action assumedly begins in the next chapter. Opinions and constructive criticism are always more than welcome.

_Hello darling, sorry about that.  
Sorry about the bony elbows, sorry we_   
_lived here, sorry about the scene at the bottom of the stairwell_   
_and how I ruined everything by saying it out loud._

Drowning everything in alcohol should be easy enough, at least when nothing else seems so.

Apparently Grantaire's life is a giant, distasteful joke where nothing seems to be functioning properly, not even all that good old self-destructing shit that make up for the actual serious shit in other people's nonsensical worlds. Alcohol takes him to another level where things still matter, they just matter less surreally and more obscenely, and that sucks big time.

The sky is grey and dull and Grantaire still wouldn't give two shits if it exploded together with his head. He curses everything that's either dead or alive, opening a bleary eye and leaving a hoarse groan which proves to be a very bad idea when pain threatens his skull to split in two. He's felt like shit before and he's begged to die before, preferably inside his underwear drawer so that Jehan and Bahorel will finally stop 'borrowing' his boxers and replacing them with glittery G-strings, neon animal print briefs and, worst of all, medieval linen pantaloons.

It's not that he hasn't had worse hangovers, in fact he's woken up in much worse a state, covered in clothes (or worse, vomit) that didn’t belong to him, in the middle of a beach, in the corridor of a supermarket and in numerous dark alleys, beat up and fucked up, with memories enough to scar him for a lifetime or eleven.

This time is different, though. There's nothing particularly worrying that his spiralling head can notice around him. He's shirtless and barefoot, his jeans on but undone, his face marked by a pillow that isn't his own, on a bed that bears an unidentified smell, one of comfort and intimacy, that makes his unwilling heart to leap dully in his chest. He succumbs to the soothing effect of the scent on the empty side of the double bed next to his own, and buries his head in the unoccupied pillow, deeply inhaling the mixture of Joly's cloth softener and alcohol and...

Something jolts in his stomach, spreading the sick feeling all over the aching muscles of his body, from his joints to his numb limbs. He doesn't really know, it's just a hollow, uncharacteristically guilty feeling that blocks his chest and twists his insides, making it hard to breathe, and then he knows.

He groans again, wishing for the world and the people and the cars to shut the fuck up outside the window and stay in their fucking homes, gloomy as the weather commands them to be. In fact, if he could stop the world from spinning he'd be more than glad to pull the effort just for the haunting memories in his head to be casted the fuck away, and everything to simply _fade to darkness_ because he can't possibly deal with it.

How the fuck could he have let any of it happen? What allowed him to taint it all like that? He'd been drunk countless times while living in the next room to that of Enjolras', yet it had never felt in any way _natural_ to ever ask anything of the man that he worshipped, to betray a God and defile the only faith that kept him alive, the one on which he clang with such tremulous desperation. And suddenly he'd _had_ him, some of him, all for his own and just for one night and it's _gone_.

He muffled a curse in the pillow that still smelt of Enjolras' hair, hardly resisting the temptation to smash his disgusting head on the frame of the bed. The possibility of ever being worthy the divine man made him choke in horror. It wasn't something that he'd dream, dead or alive, not in a million years, yet every memory was pumping like lifeblood through him with the pain of what's never to return, of the blinding need that pounded inside his chest, of tender touches on moonlit skin and sweet, passionate lips entrapping him in their warmth.

He wouldn't be able to _sleep_ again, _fuck_ Enjolras and his fucking deity, he had ruined even that for him, Grantaire had lost his only shelter because how the fuck would he be able to ever pass out on his bed without thinking of his soft breath on his skin and of his arms wrapped around his chest? Fuck Apollo and the moment he came into his life, that is.

He couldn't get out of that room, not ever. He wouldn't be able to face Enjolras ever again after what he had done to him, he didn't have the right. Grantaire groaned and whimpered and cursed the damned pillow, wondering if he could easily dissolve into thin air and never having to make another step in his life.

"Oi, you dead yet?"

Is he dead? He could play it dead, that wouldn't be a first. Bahorel can go fuck the fuck off. _He_ didn't spend a night living through a dream that would throw him in a painful nightmare after that. Bahorel, for all Grantaire could remember, spent a good four hours snogging a ginger keyboard player in a dark broom closet. _Bahorel of the Dothraki_ wouldn't have to deal with his demons for eternity in the purgatory of his mind, or some equally poetic shit Jehan would wax now that he'd wake up all blissful and flowery in his Curly Knight's with-the-shining-knickers arms.

Bahorel knocks the door - or rather tries to smash it down - when he doesn't receive a reply. "No," Grantaire growls and immediately regets it. His head is threatening to burst in a million pieces, and now Bahorel knows he's ridiculously alive and miserable.

"GET OFF YOUR ASS OR SO HELP ME!" Bahorel growls outside the door. "There's some real fucking drama going on downstairs!"

Now that Grantaire manages to put the buzzing in his head in some pathetic excuse of an order, he can hear the muffled sounds of people fighting from the living room, yet he still can't distinguish the voices and the subject of their quarrel. "Apollo?" he can only croak.

"Fucked if I know, man," he hears Bahorel's voice through the door. "We just saw him crawling up to Combeferre in the morning."

"Is he here now?" Grantaire sits up on his bed, his heart hammering against his ribs.

"Ferre took him and Ponine home, they didn't look quite like themselves." A bear chuckle. "Our mighty leader clingy and hung over is quite a sight, though."

"What about Ponine?"

"Ugh, she looked like death warmed over? Ferre got her though." Grantaire finds himself exhaling in relief even though _death warmed over_ wasn't exactly a satisfying answer. Still, Enjolras had at least disappeared from a several kilometers radius away from the ménage à trois manor, and for Éponine being in undoubtedly good hands. He drags his aching bones to the door, peering his head outside, only to be faced with a perfectly dishevelled Bahorel, in a skirt that does not belong to him and a baking apron that looks suspiciously much like Feuilly's, sporting one black eye and a pair of dark circles to go with it. "Well, good morning, my shiny ray of fuck," he smiles widely despite his overall hung over gloominess, half patting-half slapping Grantaire's unshaven cheek. "You look like shit." Grantaire rolls his eyes as Bahorel grips on his arm and pulls him outside. "Now come do something with Prouvaire, they're both losing their shit and it's fucking ugly."

 _Putain_.

Grantaire can't quite understand what's going on, but Bahorel practically carries him downstairs, and he doesn't even have time to protest for his creaky skeleton falling apart in his smelly skin, because he's faced with an actual _scene_ taking place in the middle of the battlefield that is Joly's living room.

Joly himself looks close to the bouts of an apoplexy as he hisses to his Cat who's hissing at all the discarded pizza boxes and pieces of clothing all around the furniture. Musichetta has already left, for what Grantaire hopes it is her work at the coffee shop because Monsieur Valjean will fire them both or worse, sigh in disappointment, and Bossuet is trying helplessly to get between the two fighting men, while Feuilly is still snoring with his legs hanging from the coffee table. Courfeyrac is only in his underwear, clutching Jehan's fully clothed arms, his face completely flushed with panic. "Stay," he beseeches a sick looking Jehan almost tragically. "For fuck's sake, Jehan! It's my birthday!"

Jehan has dark circles under his eyes and one day's scruff on his deathly pale cheeks. "I'm sorry," he replies in a low, shaky voice. "I'm sorry... I must go." He drags a sharp intake of breath, refusing to meet Courfeyrac's gaze. "I need some time," he mutters hoarsely.

"Guys come on, this is shit!" Bossuet interrupts in desperation, but they pay no attention to him. Jehan pulls his arm away from Courfeyrac's grip.

"You've got to understand," Jehan looks sick as he raises his teary glance to face him, Grantaire knows that color on him, the way he pursues his lips together, and he hates it, he needs it to stop, to shove their stupid heads together and make them kiss already, to hold his friend and promise it will be okay, it _has_ to be okay...

_Jehan has to._

"I... I can't do this, Courf. We're fucking around, and I don’t want us to..."

"Then let's stop fucking around!" the brunet looks desperate, his lower lip trembling dangerously like that of a kid's. It isn't beautiful or cute, it's ugly like watching a hurt puppy and Grantaire can't take this, it's so fucked up, _Courfeyrac can't cry, Jehan can't look sick, this is fucking wrong._.. "Please, Jehan!"

"I can't," Jehan's voice trembles. "We're fucking up, don't you see?" he clutches Courfeyrac's hands in his own, taking him by surprise. "We're fucking up, and we'll keep fucking up and... and if I lose you I'll die," his voice chokes and Grantaire can feel the disgusting aftertaste of bile burning its way up his own throat.

"Is it because I kissed the others?" the first sob comes to shake Courfeyrac's chest and no one can to anything to intervene, they're just frozen and shell-shocked, watching the two precious rays of sunshine of their group losing their light and destroying everything that's left to remind them of beauty, ever so surely. "God I'm sorry, I'm so sorry..."

"Why would it be that, Courfeyrac? I did it too, didn't I?" Jehan forces a paralyzed smile. "Would we feel any different towards each other just because there is a game? It's just... Well yes, you've got to decide if you want this or if you want everything, because I have no problem giving it to you all, giving you everything I can, but you need to know what to ask first," Jehan swallows hard, his face scrunched up as he eventually loses all of the composure he'd managed to maintain until that particular instant. "It can't work, Courf, and I can't bear losing you."

"But you _are_ losing me," Courfeyrac's face is now red and shining with tears, his lips curled in complete terror for the quite unexpected turn of events. "You're sending me away, fleur... Why are you doing this?"

"I need some time, I can't do this now," Jehan brings Courfeyrac's wrist to his lips and presses a kiss on his skin, before his bony finger grip the other's hands. "We'll... we'll talk later, okay?" And with that he turns around and walks out of the door. Grantaire is numb, paralyzed while everyone else seems to stir and throw themselves at a wrecked Courfeyrac, shouting things that make no sense. For a moment Grantaire is sure he's going to get sick on Joly's carpet.

When he manages to breathe again, he's already burst out of the house and is running after Jehan in the grey, empty streets.

*

"Enjolras came looking for you," is the first thing that a miserable, exhausted Éponine tells them when she appears on the doorway, looking frightfully tiny in one of his stained t-shirts, her skin a dirty shade of grey and her oily hair pulled in a messy bun. She immediately understands something's terribly wrong and she steps back, unable to hide her worry.

"What the fuck happened?" At least she looks well enough to swear, at the moment that's a weight lifted off Grantaire's chest, and he owes his relief to Combeferre. He purposefully ignores the reference of Enjolras' name, doing a favor mostly to himself, determined to forget all about soft lips and glowing eyes burning through wings of wax.

She doesn't ask a second time when she realizes she shouldn't expect an answer. Grantaire can hear her bare feet thumping on the floor of the corridor, and soon she returns with strong coffee that has gone cold - probably from the dose that she used herself earlier this afternoon. The three of them curl up on the sofa, only the sound of their breathing and Jehan's occasional sobs heard through the deathly silence that falls between them. He can feel his friend's tears soaking through his shirt, and all he can do is hold him close, wrapped together as if the world will fall apart if let go off each other. Éponine is a wreck herself. Maenad curls on her lap and she pets her absent-mindedly, her glance dull and fixed on some spot of insignificant importance somewhere across the room.

For a moment there he wonders of fucking everything and curling by his guitar, but then he can already hear the atonic, distorted chords that will escape his numb fingers and make everything wrong, and he knows that his place is nowhere but these pissy cushions.

They don't exchange a single word, no one makes an effort, yet it isn't awkward, or more depressing than it would be anyways. What's really depressing is the fact that this feels very close to the natural state of things, to the mornings when Grantaire couldn't bring himself to get out of bed, to the evenings when he'd have to drag himself in the kitchen only to find Jehan sitting on the piles with glassy eyes, just to beg him to have something to eat, to the nights when they would hear Éponine sneak into the apartment, drunk or drugged or crying angry tears, bearing no less than a black eye and a bruised collarbone. It was all in the past, or it had seemed so, but nevertheless it had happened and none of the three of them would ever forget the fairlessness and the agony that would forever bring them together.

Grantaire aches to meet Éponine's gaze, the only honest one that will tell him _you've fucked up, I've fucked up, how did we all fuck up so fucking much_ , yet he can't bear having it all shoved like a bullet in his chest all over again because he's a coward and he'll always be.

Jehan falls asleep on the pillow fort, a small-looking bundle with the troubled face of some lithe, fallen angel from Parmigianino's distorted universe of sacredness. Éponine stands up and throws a look at the dark streak of sky outside the window, heaving a sigh before she makes her way to her room and slamming the door shut behind her.

Grantaire drinks.

*

 **[francebeforepants, 19:02]** You there?  
 **[francebeforepants, 19:04]** I've been looking for you all day  
 **[francebeforepants, 19:05]** We need to talk

For the biggest part of the morning, Enjolras tries to nurse a splitting headache, practically wrapped around the coffee machine which he relocates to his desk, earning several Combeglares, until Bossuet drops Courfeyrac home and they both spend an hour trying to convince him to unlock the door of his bedroom to find out what has actually brought him to such a state.

He spends the rest of his time pressing his eyes tightly shut and muffling his groans, so that every embarrassing drunken memory from the night before will disappear from his mind. There is a hollow feeling in his chest every time that Grantaire's touch returns to creep beneath his skin and he hates every hint change inside him, in the way he misses him like he never thought he would and in the way he can't concentrate on the preparations of the protest, in the way his heart leaps every time his phone buzzes or a sound is heard from the nearby apartment, just to find out it isn't Grantaire and throw him back in delirious agony all over again.

Enjolras had never really given romance a second thought. It wasn't something he'd downright refused when his friends first started dating or experimenting in high school. It just wasn't something that directly concerned him. He had most important things in his mind, or so he thought, and he wasn't willing to put them aside so that he would focus on intimate relationships and ways to deal with and seek for human contact. Over the years, his neutral position on the issue had become almost hostile, partly as a response to Courfeyrac's well meaning purpose to matchmake him or _at least get you laid_! and partly because of his determination to go against oppresive societal standards that demanded from people to be sexually or romantically inclined in order to achieve personal fulfillment.

It wasn't that he didn't have a sex drive, only when time was left for it to make an appearance again but, as frustrating when it posed a problem as it was rare. It wasn't that he didn't know love either, passionate love at that, even if he never was at ease to put it into words, his love for freedom and equality, his desperate devotion for all those faceless people whose voices were left unheard, his passionate adoration for Paris, the city that had betrayed him one too many times but never took his faith away. And, most of all, the way his chest swelled with affection when Courfeyrac's face lit up with laughter, the comfort he could only find lying in Combeferre's sharp yet gentle words, his clinging on his best friend's sober opinions that kept his feet on the ground, even when ( _especially_ when) they opposed to his own, the way he felt sick to his stomach when he saw Courfeyrac's swollen, bloodshot eyes that afternoon.

Yet Grantaire fell in none of the categories that Enjolras knew how to deal with and classify. All that Enjolras had known up to that moment was hate, passionate or underlying, even when they stopped trying to jump on each other's neck at every meeting. Hate was all that Enjolras could name when he thought of the way the other man never let him concentrate on anything that had managed to maintain his utmost attention in the past, hate towards those spiteful, sarcastic words and the lazy, sneering voice that spoke them. Hate for the horrible, cynical opinions he'd always condemned in a man and found it impossible to believe one owned. For those icy blue eyes that frustrated him so much and troubled his sleep at night, and for the way his whole being was burning in maddening need for those experienced touches, full with complete and utter veneration, a softness in Grantaire's voice that he hadn't heard before, a tenderness in the sad lakes of his eyes as they caressed his skin that went straight to Enjolras' heart and clenched tightly in a suffocating grip that made him feel like the whole world was about to explode just at the moment when Grantaire peered into the room with that half-crooked smile of his and a line always ready to piss Enjolras off and make his heart race madly in his chest and the collar of his shirt to tighten around his neck and his palms to start sweating...

Enjolras hated Grantaire, or maybe he hated that state of constant intoxication that he found himself drowning into, an intoxication so different from every captivating sensation he'd built his life, cause and philosophy before, because Grantaire was not an intoxicating idea. He was simply a drunken person. Not a person that Enjolras wanted to save, a person he'd try to change, even though he would never lose his hope for such a terribly naive thing. No, Grantaire was a person that stirred in Enjolras newly awoken passions, as well as weaknesses. To help him, yes, if not to find faith in the world around him, to learn at least to seek it in what he had inside him. To hold him close and assure him that everything would be fine, to give him so much that he would suffocate him.

Enjolras had spent enough time finding excuses. And now, they needed to talk.

But Grantaire wasn't at home and, for all he knew, he wouldn't reply to his messages anytime soon. _He's hung over. And even if he's less than you, it’s only a matter of time that he starts drinking again_. It was horrible, he hated to think of it that way but at the same time he hated the extent of Grantaire's responsibility in his uncharacteristically pessimistic way of thinking. He wanted to talk, to soothe the pain in his chest, but Grantaire didn't feel the same way. He preferred hiding, ignoring him, maybe Grantaire wasn't even well enough to do this right now, and that was the most maddening possibility going through Enjolras' mind.

He didn't stop worrying as the day passed with him fuming and moping over piles of notes and an uncharged laptop. His insides clenched even more tightly with every minute that passed with him feeling the room next to his own empty. And then there were steps, muffled through the cement wall, there was a foot tapping absently on the wooden floor, fingers fiddling with sheets of paper and he could _hear_ the sketches crumpled and tossed away by Grantaire's deft, raw fingers.

His own fingers are somehow on the screen of his phone, typing his contact. One second passes, then two, and he can hear Grantaire's phone buzz through the wall. He bites his lower lip until he draws blood and he's ready to smash his phone across the wall, when the buzzing ceases from the other room. For a second that lasts more than a week or so, he's sure that Grantaire has hung up, but then he hears a hoarse voice from the end of the line, distorted with the echo of the actual voice through the wall, and his heart jumps a million times in his chest.

"Apollo."

He can feel his lips parting for a breath that he'd forgotten to take, his eyelids sliding shut as he slowly takes in the familiar bitterness in the man's voice that sends a way-too-unfamiliar wave of warmth that soothes the tightness in his chest. In all their misery, this somehow is a blissful moment, and to complete it, his voice comes out as a mere croak.

"Grantaire."

 _Pathetic_.

"To what do I owe the pleasure..."

"I wanted to see how you're doing."

There's a heavy sigh from the end of the line that makes the short curls to stand up on Enjolras' nape. "Still alive, I guess."

"That's a good start," Enjolras makes a vain effort to joke.

"Depends on how you take it."

Silence falls between them, one that they don't dare interrupt with unnecessary breathing noises. Enjolras feels very much like punching a fist on the wall, but he stops just on time when he realizes that Grantaire will probably (definitely) notice.

"Listen..." it's Grantaire who breaks the silence, sounding groggy and remorseful. "I know that you'd rather not have this conversation now, but I'm sorry."

Enjolras has to admit that, probably thanks to the horrid amount of alcohol that his body hasn't yet been used to, he's feeling quite perplexed. "Sorry for what?"

There is a pregnant pause, interrupted by the particularly frustrating sound of Grantaire swallowing. "Don't make this harder than it already is," he sighs at last. "I'm trying to apologize. For... for everything that happened last night."

"Well, it's not you who should apologize."

"I took advantage of you," Grantaire's voice comes out laboured, almost pained. "You're a lightweight, and... listen. Fuck it, okay? Fuck me. I mean... not literally, just... fuck me. What is wrong with you anyway? You shouldn't be fucking talking to me!"

"Grantaire, _what_ exactly happened last night?"

That stops Grantaire's incoherent rambling. "Fuck, Apollo," he breathes. "Show some fucking mercy to your mortals, okay?"

Enjolras is starting to lose his patience, and the way his breathing grows erratic once again doesn't really help with the throbbing in his head. "No, seriously, I want to be sure that I remember correctly."

Another pause. "We were drunk. You were... God you were so fucking wasted. You gave me a lap dance. They locked us out at the fire escape. You kissed me, then said you needed to take a piss," Grantaire stops, breathing raggedly as if he's run a marathon. "Don't make me say anymore."

"It's alright, I remember," Enjolras says softly.

"I don't know what you're trying to do," Grantaire murmurs on the phone, "but seriously, I don't need any more fucking punishment, okay?"

"R, what are you talking about?"

"I don't know why you called me, why you're doing all this, if you want to make me feel guilty, or to push it down my throat until I puke all over my face, but if you want to torture me to redeem yourself for the fact that you don't want to know my name, then know that this I've punished myself enough and you can shove your phone up your ass..."

"Grantaire," Enjolras interrupts him in a gentle tone. "I don't." He takes a deep breath. "Regret this. So if you could kindly shut the fuck up and act as a decent human being for once in your life it would be highly appreciated."

"Why did you call, Apollo?"

"To hear your voice."

The silence that falls could wake the dead. "I don't understand..."

"Well, what in Godric's name is so hard to understand?" Enjolras snaps. "Care to help me so that I can enlighten you?"

"I... No. Fuck it. You don't understand," Grantaire groans. "Fuck, _you don't understand_ , it shouldn't have happened..."

"Grantaire..."

"None of it should have happened!" There is an unidentified bang from the other side of the wall. "I don't know what shit you're trying to impose upon me, but fuck knows I can't take it right now!"

There is no more dramatic sounds or ground breaking revelations. The phone just goes dead as Grantaire's voice dissolves into dull beeping.

Enjolras falls limp on his bed, his limbs feeling numb and his insides empty. He shuts his eyes, trying to swallow the lump that's sitting on his throat and, for the first time in months, he feels the wall that parts him from the other man as a massive weight pressed on his chest.

_There were some nice parts, sure,_   
_all lemondrop and mellonball, laughing in silk pajamas_   
_and the grains of sugar_   
_on the toast, love love or whatever, take a number._

Enjolras would easily stay into his room for the rest of the day, but Courfeyrac is crying in the living room and Enjolras' heart is breaking. The worst of all, is that he finds himself absolutely unable to comfort his best friend in any way. He's determined to do something when he enters the room and sees him curled up in Combeferre's arms on the sofa, but then the usual awkwardness that follows human contact stiffens him to his place.

Courfeyrac doesn't do anything midway, neither passion nor sorrow. He stubbornly raises his voice between shaky sobs and refuses to hear anything else. ""Ugh I hate Courfeyrac, Courfeyrac is always so happy,"" he mocks, reduced into tears. "Well shame on Courfeyrac for being happy, and shame of Courfeyrac for not being happy, Courfeyrac needs some drama in his life doesn't he?" He kicks the coffee table with his bare foot, bursting into new tears of irritation. "It serves him well for falling in love with a Romantic, assuming he was just a _romantic_."

"No one ever said those things for you, Courf," Enjolras mutters softly, making his way to the couch and taking his friend's clammy hand in his own, rubbing gently the back of it with his thumb.

"There, you know how sad it makes us to see you like this," Combeferre rubs Courfeyrac's back gently.

"Well for some reason we all have to be _sad_ , don't we?" Courfeyrac snorts angrily.

"Don't blame Jehan..."

"I’m not blaming _Jehan_ ," his face scrunches up at the mention of the poet's name and Enjolras feels his insides clenching tightly. "I’m just asking why we can’t have nice things!" No one has anything to reply to that, and awkward silence falls, interrupted only by Courfeyrac's heavy, stuffed breathing. "Why can't things just be simple, Ferre?" he murmurs. "All I did was love him and let him know."

"Yes, but sometimes the fact that you love him alone is not enough," Combeferre sighs, his features pulled in an expression of repressed pain. "Your feelings are pure and this is admirable, but sometimes people need some space. When the time comes he will appreciate everything you've done for him when he needed you." Combeferre gently wipes a tear from Courfeyrac's face with his thumb. "I promise."

"Yes but what did I do wrong?" a sob shakes Courfeyrac's slumped shoulders and passes through Enjolras' body to pang his chest.

"You did nothing wrong..." Combeferre begins.

"Well, you did kiss everyone," Enjolras murmurs uncomfortably, and Combeferre glares at him behind Courfeyrac's shoulder, "but he did too," Enjolras rushes to add.

"I did," Courfeyrac murmurs in a hoarse voice, sounding hostile. "But we aren't an item. Sadly we never were."

"Then you both need some time before you ask yourselves to become one." If anyone else had said it, it could have possibly sounded accusing in its way, and particularly unsuitable a thing to say at that point of the conversation. The fact that the usually sharp Combeferre said that in a serious voice made the whole attempt even more dangerous, but there was something about the tone that the bespectacled man used whenever he comforted a loved one, and the genuinity in his every word, that made it exactly the right thing to be said.

"You're the smart guy, why don't you help me?" Courfeyrac whimpers.

Combeferre doesn't reply to that. His glance doesn't meet Enjolras'. "I'm going to speak to Jehan," he finally says in a chilly voice. "I just need you to be patient, and give him some time."

Courfeyrac looks entirely too grateful for Combeferre to stay cross, so the bespectacled man just squeezes his hand and flashes a small, weary smile.

"Let's go get a shower, okay?" Enjolras runs his hand up and down Courfeyrac's forearm soothingly. "I'm going to prepare the water, and then I'll make us some early dinner."

"Don't make dinner," Combeferre almost snaps, having half-regretted his tone before even finishing his sentence. "You'll blow the kitchen up." Enjolras opens his mouth to protest, but Combeferre is already up, his lips pressed into a thin line. "Go have a shower and some rest, I'll make us food."

Enjolras leans to press an absent-minded kiss on Courfeyrac's temple, refusing to look around at an apartment that's laughing at their faces.

*

Feuilly goes straight to work after he wakes up at Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta's and, the superhuman that he is, straight back to see how Jehan is doing when his shift is over and he's a step away from collapsing with exhaustion. He arrives bearing sugary presents and Éponine almost kisses him - she would have if it weren't for the disgusting hangover aftertaste that still lingers in her mouth.

"How is he?" the working man sighs as he drops himself on a kitchen chair, attacking one of the pain au chocolats that he's brought as if he hasn't had a proper meal in weeks. Maenad jumps on his greasy dungaree-clad knees and he absently scratches her fur behind her ears.

"Still sleeping," Grantaire murmurs, grabbing an emergency beer from the freezer and throwing Feuilly a glass to share. The latter quirks a fair eyebrow at the sight of alcohol.

"No screw you, I'm not going to drink for a dozen years more, and neither are you."

Grantaire just shrugs his shoulders as Feuilly pets Maenad's stretched out belly, and pops his bottle open with his teeth. "Yeah, whatever the fuck you say."

"I'm serious," Feuilly stands up and grabs the cold bottle from Grantaire's hands so abruptly, that Maenad falls from his knees and hisses furiously, baring her claws.

Before Grantaire's can pull his dizzy shit together and claim his precious bottle back, Feuilly has poured its contents into the sink.

" _Va te faire foutre_!" Grantaire groans. "It was the last one, I sincerely hope Bahorel jerks off on your fans!"

"Yeah right, whatever. I'm gonna get some sleep and so should you. I would go water Jehan's plants but I'm knackered."

Grantaire can't keep a long face to Feuilly, no matter what a massive piece of ginger shit he can occasionally turn to. He waters the remaining flowers in Jehan's garden that haven't yet withered, even if his hands are shaking dangerously with deprivation. It's not a hot evening. The clouds are still thick and suffocating on the grey sky, neither letting the sun to set properly, nor making up their fucking mind to rain. They're merely annoying and Grantaire snorts. Still, despite the chilly weather, his throat feels dry, as if it's been scraped with sandpaper, and the aftertaste of the beer he hardly even got to open keeps biling up in his mouth. He's restless, his fingers fiddling with the zipper of his hoodie, his feet scraping the bricks until his toe bleeds, and then he starts biting what's left of his nails, until he hears the door of the garden creaking behind him.

He feels Éponine slumping next to him, pulling her ankles close to her hips. "What's your poison?" he asks without having to turn and see what she's holding: it's easy enough to smell its presence.

"Beer in a papercup," comes her throaty response.

"Where did you find it?"

"You're not the only one with an emergency stash." He can hear her chew on the inside of her cheek. "Not that this makes it okay."

"Aweeesome!" he snorts sarcastically, a cold smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes spreading all over his chapped lips. "So you can have all the beers you want, but I can't keep fucking _one_!"

"It's because I..." Éponine sucks her words mid-sentence. _Well, it's because I'm not an alcoholic_. Grantaire feels the bony arm that comes to wrap around his shoulders like a hostile, unwelcome branch of an old tree full of thorns. She doesn't even need to say it and it doesn't even matter that she cares. He knows what they think and their intentions don't make it any easier.

_That's because they're right._

"Feuilly came," he makes a considerable effort to shove that away because it's not her fault that he's such a fucking mess, she's already had enough in first place.

"Was he tired?"

"Drained. And glowing. He could be fucking pregnant and we wouldn't know."

"Well, shagging a kickboxer is no small thing, is it?"

"Oh? So who was the last kickboxer you shagged?"

"You."

"Shagging _me_ is no small thing."

"I stand corrected."

Grantaire punches her arm lightly. "So do you think they did the do?"

She rolls her eyes to the heavens. "Uh, yeah?"

"If we start having live porn streaming from upstairs too I'll fucking send Jehan to attack them."

It then hits him how wrong it would be to think of Jehan attacking anything or anyone right now, and he realizes how absurdly sad it makes him that there will be no more of Courfeyrac and Jehan obscene livestreaming.

"So," he mutters, trying to change the subject. "What happened with you yesterday?"

"Well," she shrugs her shoulders again as if it's about to go out of fashion, searching for a way to delay her reply. "I tried to seduce Combeferre by puking on him."

Grantaire's expression remains blank as he turns his head forward. "Shit."

"Yeah, shit."

"So," a cigarette has somehow magically appeared and been lit in Éponine's fingers, and Grantaire accepts it quite thankfully between his own, bringing it to his lips to take a slow, greedy drag. "Have you finally realized what is good for you? Cough - not your best friend's oblivious squirell boyfriend - cough."

Éponine doesn't teasingly punch him in the arm, she doesn't blow her smoke in his face or snort her guts out. She remains thoughtfully silent instead, until she scrubs her face with the bridges of her hands and sighs tiredly. "It's not that easy," she mutters. "I mean... he's a thing entirely new to me." She turns around to face him. "If you saw him last night, Grantaire... The way he did... The way he told me it was okay, the way he stopped me, how firm he was..."

"I've seen the way he looks at you?" Grantaire curves an eyebrow, blowing the smoke in silver tendrils before giving her the cigarette. "That's enough."

"Realizing _what's good for me_... isn't enough, though. I wish it was that easy but you know it isn't..."

"Don't you like him?"

She snorts out a short, bitter laugh full with smoke. "This can't... It's more complicated than that, you know. Love isn't always fireworks for all of us. I mean... it came like that to me for me, and I'd thought it wouldn't come again, but sometimes you can't... you just can't know these things. They don't come with an explanatory title, falling under a comfortably narrow category, reporting all the crap that's taking place in your life. They don't give you a user's manual when you decide to never care for anyone else than the person who's undeliberately fucked you up, and then unconsciously take other people out on dates, and then the kiss you never shared because _you're just friends and you're in love with someone else_ haunts the fuck out of you fucking _obsessively_. Sometimes it's sneaking up on you and you don't even know, and that's even worse than the harm caused by the most rigid clarity." She takes a deep breath. Grantaire is feeling frozen in his place.

Éponine had never been that person who spoke a lot, especially in comparison to his own incoherent rambles, yet he's never heard her more clear and _sensible_ than this. He wonders if it is about all the time she's spent with Combeferre, but then it downs him that, despite all her emotional breakdowns related to a shitty cihldhood and a much shittier early adulthood, she was the one who always pulled through in the end, always accepting less than minimal support from her friends. At that moment he can only admire her, and a sick feeling starts twirling again in his stomach at the thought of his own failure, the strength that he'll never call his own.

"I mean, he goes to the Madeleine church to listen to _Vivaldi_ , R. He actually pays for that. Some people are just not made for some other people," she continues dully and her words sink like a heavy weight inside him. "Feelings are not enough when... it's just the two of you. And there are things going on between you," she says hoarsely. "You know it just can't happen."

You know that. The flowers in Jehan's garden are withering without the Sun that's swallowed up behind the clouds, yet their colors is the only remainder of those deceiving days that come with a few stray sunrays through the grilles and a bit of air for your lungs, only to swallow it back away and make you choke on it.

It's still beautiful, in a decadent sense of the word, and Grantaire's toes poke one of Jehan's perishing red roses that's slumping out of its pot.

It gives him an odd, perverted satisfaction, the purgation of defiling the virginal marble.

"Ew, the sun," Éponine croaks. The smile that flickers over Grantaire's face causes pain to his muscles.

_You know, it just can't happen._

*

Strong arms wrap around his waist and rough, callused fingers brush the damp locks off his forehead as he gurgles up his insides in the toilet. Thick droplets of cold sweat have stuck on his temple and just won't flow because everything frozen and everything's torutre. Only Grantaire can breathe some warmth inside him, soothingly rubbing his bony shoulders with his hands and messily braiding his hair, burying his nose in the crook of his neck after he helps him wash his mouth and stand on his wobbly feet.

"Are you okay?" he asks softly but still, it's quite unnecessary.

"Yeah, a stomach bug or something," he gives him a shadow of a smile. _It's not something, not really. He just feels full, so full he can't feel anything anymore, he needs to be empty, he needs to feel nothing and everything._

"Have you tried eating anything?" Grantaire asks without questioning anything any further.

"I'm okay love, truly, I promise..."

He lets Grantaire guide him to the kitchen and he watches him as he toasts some bread that he really doesn't want to down but will do so, for Grantaire's sake. He's barefoot and disheveled, his hair unwashed and his eyes surrounded by dark, hollow circles. Grantaire is truly beautiful and, for a moment there, Jehan wants to go back, when it was just _them_ , he wants to snuggle it all away and lie down together, forget about everyone and everything else that ever mattered.

Grantaire's movements are not sure or practiced. He can see his hands shaking and he bangs the kettle on the kitchen counter hard enough to spill water all around. Jehan can't get up and help because it's happening again. The sound of the kettle is surreal, the kitchen blurry and the piles cold beneath his feet. He focuses on the dull ticking of the owl clock Feuilly gave them when they first moved in. Every second that passes is pure agony, seconds creeping under his skin as he takes a reluctant bite of toasted bread, raw and dry, scratching his throat and burning inside of him.

_If the window is on your right, you are in your own bed. If the window_   
_is over your heart, and it is painted shut, then we are breathing_   
_river water._

Moments are fading before their eyes and slipping through their very fingers, they feel thicker than a thread and thinner than the ink on a yellowish page. He wants to freeze time and capture that moment forever, curl down like one of Rodin's _femmes accourpées_ and stop everything, entrap their pulses in the pages of the history book, Courfeyrac's breath on his hair, his lips upon his skin, the song in his chest the first time their eyes met, surrounded by flowers in his garden. He wants to cry but nothing flows but seconds.

"We need time," he murmurs. "I need time, R."

Grantaire kneels on the floor in front of his chair and tangles their fingers together. "You have the right to take all the time that you need," he says softly. "He'll be waiting for you. Just... don't keep him waiting too much."

"I... this is my fault," Jehan's voice falters as he hides his face in his palms.

"Have you tried writing?" Grantaire asks gently.

_Okay, if you’re so great, you do it—_   
_here’s the pencil, make it work . . ._

"I can't write," Jehan croaks, lowering his eyes, his bitten fingers trying to dig into the pale, cold flesh of his thigh.

Grantaire doesn't press him, he never does. "You want him," he says at last, not as a realization because it's nothing new. It's more of a question, of a reminder. _You want him, so why did you run away from him?_ He knows better than most people that these things are not supposed to make sense, and he knows that Jean Prouvaire is so in love that pain radiates through his body in the small, dark kitchen. He won't make this any harder than it already is by posing unanswered questions.

"He doesn't deserve me, Grantaire," Jehan explains to him in a low voice, threatening to break. His whole body is shaking now like a leaf, his knees bumping on the table, the cacophony of his teeth chattering quietly together. He's feeling tiny, wrapped into Grantaire's arms. "He's so perfect," he murmurs, burying his face in Grantaire's neck. "I couldn't do this. So pure and untouched..."

He feels Grantaire going stiff against him before the man pulls back and stares at him absurdly, slowly raises an eyebrow until it disappears under the wild curls scattered upon his forehead. "You do realize who you're talking about, right? You, Jean Prouvaire, defiling the pure and untouched Courfeyrac?" he asks incredulously, with just a hint of sarcasm in his voice.

"It's not part of... of some conventional moral code, it doesn’t have anything to do with promiscuity... It's... he has a pure soul, Grantaire." Jehan heaves a sigh. "He's like a sunflower, radiant and free and so very _pure_. It’s not him I’m afraid of, don't you see?" he brings his hands to his face and rubs his eyes wearily. His voice is tiny and seems to be coming out with difficulty. "It’s myself."

"Yeah, that's all very noble Romantic _bull_ shit," Grantaire murmurs hoarsely, his voice lacking any poison.

"You don't understand. I can't limit him; I want him to have everything..."

Grantaire's rough fingers wrap around his wrists and pull his hands away from his face, forcing him to meet his eyes. " _You_ are everything, angel."

Jehan lowers his eyes on his knees again, not letting his friend see the tears burning on his skin. "We haven't danced in so long," he finally whispers, giving up an eerie, distant smile.

Grantaire wraps his lithe figure in his arms and lifts him up. Jehan rests his head on the man's shoulder and lets the tears dry on his shirt as the two of them start twirling on the foggy kitchen piles.

Grantaire smells of smoke, oranges, and a lost _naivété_ , the hope of a sunray trapped in a window pane, struggling to touch the sky even after having her wings repeatedly burnt. Jehan leans closer against his chest, smiles against the scruff on his cheek. Grantaire is a fierce dragon and he's a dopey prince trying to find his way, or vice versa, it doesn't really matter. It's just them again, and the flickering, decadent lamp light reflecting on the greasy piles of the kitchen floor, is a constellation of stars where their bare feet step.

_Okay, so I’m the dragon. Big deal._   
_You still get to be the hero._

They stop soon enough, exhausted and dizzy and hung over, and fall against the kitchen table with shaky, almost hysterical giggles. Grantaire wraps himself around Jehan and lifts him on his lap as if he weighs less than a feather. For a moment there, the grip around his waist is gentler, the laughter echoing in his ears is more playful, the neck in which he's nuzzling his nose smells of Bleu de Chanel and freedom, and Jehan laughs a bit louder. It’s tainted and it keeps himself from collapsing on the floor and crying.

They sit like that for what feels like hours, curled up against each other on the cold kitchen floor, their ankles tangled together and their foreheads entwined. At some point of the night when several nights might have passed, or maybe weeks, Grantaire pinches his ribs playfully, eliciting an elbow in his stomach. "You stink, baby," he murmurs with a chuckle in Jehan's chest.

"Screw you," Jehan croons softly, "have you tried  _smelling_  yourself?"

"D'you know what we should do?" Grantaire sighs as a hint of a smile passes through his lips, wrapping his arms around Jehan and lifting him up with no effort whatsoever. "We should dye your hair."

Jehan kicks and punches the air, caught in a fit of laughter while Grantaire carries him in the bathroom, looking relievingly amused. They drag a chair in front of the sink, and Grantaire's deft fingers start working wonders on his unbraided locks. He gives himself over and succumbs to the long-treasured peace the two of them can find in the intensity of every moment, and soon his hair is turning turquoise, he's a fucking metamorphmagus and he's going to be one for a couple of days and, just for a few minutes, nothing else matters but all the power that he has in his hands, that and only that, Grantaire's hollow laughter, his arms wrapped around his chest and the chaste kisses that he presses on the cherry blossom between his shoulder blades.

"Look at you," he croons softly, and they both slip out of their clothes, being liberated at last and drowning in the mellow warmth of the old, greasy porcelain bathtub. "You're a mermaid," he murmurs, sinking lower and emitting a blissful sigh as the ballistic soap explodes in aquamarine foam and fills the tub in an intoxicating scent of mint and sea and everything in between.

There are flower petals floating on the surface of the water, melting in colors all around, and Jehan feels more underwater than when he actually was in the fucking sea, but he's not drowning anymore. Éponine always used to moan about masturbation being impossible with all the geccos creeping at her and enjoying the humidity and grease in that tiny shithole of a bathroom, and Grantaire always jokingly used to say that his liver felt cleaner than the dark piles on the floor. Both of his friends were practically correct, but there was something about the dim lighting (uh yes like, a _broken lamp_ ) and the claustrophobic sensation in that bathroom that, ironically enough, gave him some space to breathe when the rest of the world felt heavy upon his shoulders.

They had a ritual of bathing together when one of them was feeling like shit. There was the time when all of Jehan's beautiful locks were lying chopped on the floor, pooled in his tears, there was the time when Grantaire simply needed the puke or the blood cleaned off of his skin, and there were all those times when one of them could hardly bring himself to move a sore muscle, and a bathtub full of lukewarm water could always make it better.

It wasn't that they hadn't invited Éponine along numerous times, or proposed to do it for her when she was feeling down, she just never happened to feel like it. Éponine was probably the most demonstrative of the three when it came to her emotions or the crappy things that happened in her life, but she refused help or human contact most of the time, even if the three of them did on no account lack a certain level of intimacy. She was the first one to recover and get her shit together, thanks to the experience of a good twenty years of comforting herself to the point of feeling she would go mad, of saving herself and of being cursed to be the oldest one, to save others almost by instinct, and to never have anyone to just lift the weight of her shoulders. That, until Grantaire found her, or rather, she found him, and they both steadily unwrapped their fingers and hesitantly tangled them together.

They hear her return from work before the water starts getting cold. There is a knock on the door, the mandatory knock just to check the number -or lack of- passed out people inside the bathroom. "Are you having sex in there?" she groans. "Because you know, in the past you let me join and I really need it right now, okay?"

"We're not having sex," Grantaire calls in a dazed voice, before wrapping his fingers around Jehan's bony ankles and gently parting them on the two sides of his waist, starting to massage foam on his smooth calves. "Do you want to?" he checks gently, just in case.

There is silence for a while. Jehan opens his eyes, never having felt more exhausted and more well rested in his whole life, than those precious moments of soapy nirvana. "Not really, do you?"

"No, sorry," Grantaire shakes his head firmly. "I didn’t want to make you feel awkward. You know, it just used to help us, and I want you to have what you need right now."

"I know, darling," Jehan smiles faintly, his wrinkled, damp fingers reaching for Grantaire's underwater. "It just won't right now.

"No, it won't." He knows it won't. Maybe not tonight. Maybe not ever.

Maybe that's not the way they work right now.

_Everything has changed -_

_Maybe._

Jehan is sinking deeper and deeper into the tub, until only his turquoise waves of hair are floating upon the glassy surface. His features are lost and distorted under the dancing shadows of the water and tiny bubbles of air are frolicking on the surface, escaping his parted lips. Grantaire's heart catches on his beforeJehan rises his head out of the water, wet tendrils of hair sticking on his scalp and shoulders, and Grantaire decides to abandon the bliss of the heavy scents and help him out of the tub and inside a fluffy towel.

He snaps pictures of Jehan with his old camera. He's a mermaid and a magical forest creature, a nymph and a maenad with flowers in his bones and blood beneath his tongue and pearls inside his red rimmed eyes. Colors are spread all over his limbs, branches spurting from his chest and a sea of green licking the lines of his hips. Grantaire paints on him, breathes on the canvas of his body all the life that's threatening to evaporate from his lungs inside a cloud of red wine and misty, green absinthe.

Grantaire sees beauty in the fading, youthful anemones, and in the blood dripping in a hollow of pulsating marble flesh. He's dizzy, tinny canons are threatening his skull to burst open, his knees feel wobbly so he wraps his arms around Jehan while he still can, and tucks him into bed, pressing a kiss on his forehead.

"You're my favorite."

_Actually, you said Love, for you, is larger than the usual romantic love. It’s like a religion. It’s terrifying._

"I hurt him so much," Jehan's voice breaks through the darkness of the room. "I hurt him so much when all he did was fix me…"

"You're not broken to be fixed," Grantaire murmurs, burying his face in Jehan's hair and holding him suffocatingly tight. The boy is limp in his arms at first. Then he feels him relaxing against him and heaving half of his soul out in a sigh.

"Only with you I'm not afraid of myself," Jehan mutters groggily, clinging upon him. "Why couldn't _we_ fall in love, Grantaire?"

_No one_   
_will ever want_   
_to sleep with you._

"I wish I knew, angel," Grantaire sighs and, for once, he wishes he had the ability to believe in himself. "I wish I knew."

Jehan is a sleeping angel and his hair is fresh seaweed sprawled upon the pillows, kissed by the moon as it peers through the curtains.

Grantaire tosses and turns, cursed to never again fall asleep.

_I’m sorry_   
_it’s such a lousy story._


	14. Things we lost in the fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Suddenly they’re everywhere, Enjolras realizes as his breath hitches on his throat. Not only the sketches Grantaire had made for the pamphlets and posters which are scattered all around, no. There is an _inordinate_ amount of Grantaire’s art, fierce and beautiful and _wild_ , on people’s t-shirts and on signs that they raise up in the air, violent colors and darkness between, his own artistic style taking over the sky, shouting words of freedom, words of a man _who believes._
> 
> And then, right in the middle, a colorful sign with psychedelic letters, odd and mismatching and _right_ as a punch in the guts.
> 
> NOTHING’S GONNA CHANGE MY WORLD
> 
> Enjolras stands in the middle of the tumbling city that seems to bind them together. For a moment there, everything is the same and they’ve been there, on the same cobblestone before, once, twice, eight times… The sky is grey and then it isn’t, everything is blue. Their eyes lock.
> 
> Everything goes to hell.
> 
>  
> 
> _Or the one where Enjolras fucks up having the best interests in heart, and it is the morning of the protest._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here is the essential protest chapter that, knowing me, you should have been expecting to be dramatic oh mon dieu because I'm so. Original. _So_ original that part of it (the one with Enjolras' dream) has partly the same exact words used from my story Children of the Sun. I double checked it and tried to change it but it simply couldn't work the other way, so I left it. Yeah I know, I'm cheap. But please don't be too harsh because holiday is taking the best of me, and writing has been a total nightmare. I know I shouldn't be trying to do anything else but stare at the ceiling now that I can, but knowing me this will never happen. I still spend my days sleeping which is superb, but it's impossible not to put some program in it and drive myself nuts for not managing to accomplish anything in the end. So, yeah.  
>  If you can't see the popular culture references that worked as inspiration (and inevitably objects of cold-blooded theft) are the following: Time for Heroes - Libertines, Pompeii - Bastille, Things we lost in the fire - Bastille, and These streets - Bastille-has-a-thing-about-subtextually-reincarnated-street-protesters-but-what-can-you-do.  
> WARNINGS: Police brutality, blood, alcohol abuse/withdrawal, depression.  
> You reading my fic is the best thing that can happen to me alongside Natasha Romanov asking to be my girlfriend. So thank you for everything.

He can’t sleep.

But it’s like, that he had known. He’d known that he was bereft from every slumber and every dream from the moment he woke up with no Sun outside the window and on his bedside.

The thing is, he can’t sleep because he’s sweating too much, and yet the night is fucking cold, and his sweat is cold too, every drop creeping under his skin like bugs, millions of them threatening to crawl to his brain and swallow him raw.

He leaves Jehan behind, peaceful and calm in some dark and savage dream, to take a walk to the kitchen. His movements are nervous and repeated, sharp, obsessive rituals which are making his feet cramp against the cold, greasy piles, and the sweat stick underneath his skin and pierce through him like daggers. He’s cold, and then he’s on fire, so he pulls the door of the fridge open, and when he doesn’t feel any better he does it again, but there’s nothing to drink, no fucking where, Jehan made him take all their alcohol stash to Courfeyrac’s where it was consumed to the last drop, and his head keeps replaying Feuilly, and every drop of his beer sucked by the drain of the sink.

He’s short on breath because his head is in his chest, he’s drowning in sweat, so he rests his forehead against the fridge, his fingers trembling slightly on the handle. He shuts his eyes tightly, until all he can see is drunk, grey smoke twirling in hexagonal patterns, only _he_ isn’t drunk, not anymore.

It’s disgusting, really, how some people are begging to grasp onto life because they have something to hold on to, while all that’s left to him is alcohol to drown himself into, and without it he’s trash, a pathetic excuse of an alcoholic and all he can do is laugh, laugh at his misery when no one’s there to listen. And to think that he got accepted, tolerated, he was touched and kissed and held, that’s all so wrong, and he can’t think of it anymore because he’s shaking all over.  

He needs some air in his lungs, and poison in his veins.

He finds what he’s looking for in Éponine's drawer, and some rolling paper in his pocket. Then. he climbs up to the rooftop.

The cold night air immediately hits his face and, instead of clearing up his head, he’s swallowed in a dizzy haze. He has to try hard to focus his eyesight and regain his balance, when he sees him.

Enjolras is sitting there, on his favorite corner, staring at the starry rooftops or at nowhere, his arms wrapped around his knees. Grantaire’s heart leaps into his chest and it’s painful, because now he can sleep again, only he _has_ to forever sleep in his heavenly arms, and the inches that always have to part them, whether it’s a cement wall or the greasy city air, make it impossible for him to breathe.

He’s about to turn around and peer inside before the other man notices him, but Enjolras has already his eyes fixed upon him. “Hey,” his voice comes out soft and mellow and _God,_ it sucks away what air is left in his lungs and Grantaire is losing his balance, Grantaire is losing it period. “Come sit with me?” It’s almost a plea and it shouldn’t suit Enjolras, yet it’s warm and it does, and Grantaire can’t have any more of this.

Grantaire is tired of not having what he needs to live.

He’s tired of needing it.

Enjolras can feel his face burning like waking up from a nap when he’s got the flu in mid-November, all dopey and light headed, his cheeks prickling with fever. Losing his shit just like that is not a thing he’d ever been prepared for, but Grantaire’s hands were all over him just the night before, and his breath hot on his skin, and he realizes that he wants this now, he wants this again, suddenly he’s frustrated that he cannot have it, and he knows he has to fight about it because this is what he does.

“What?” the man asks him, his blue eyes almost defensive behind the dark circles that shadow him. Enjolras goes red when he realizes he has probably been staring.

“What?” he snaps back into reality, still a bit dazed, as Grantaire lowers himself next to him. “Nothing. I just… I was hoping you’d come up here.”

Grantaire doesn’t give a reply and Enjolras feels stupid. A faint smile’s touching the man’s lips, only it tastes bitter and his gaze is distant, lost into the shadows of the city that cast dark smudges upon his scruffy face. Enjolras wishes he could stare into his eyes and know, just know, how Jehan is doing and if there is anything going on between Éponine and his best friend (because he always sucked at getting those things), know if anyone has fed Maenad and if Grantaire’s been drawing, if Grantaire has eaten or drunk or had any sleep, if he’s planning to show up at the protest tomorrow and if he’s been thinking about him, how come he didn’t hear any sounds from Grantaire’s room and what he could do to hold Grantaire again, Grantaire, Grantaire, _Grantaire…_

Grantaire shivers through the night, a cord trembling on the curve of his neck, under a thin sheen of sweat. Enjolras swallows, there is a lump on his throat and he turns to stare at the sky unfolding its veil before him. “You should have brought a jacket,” he mutters. “It’s cold tonight.”

There is no answer, he just feels Grantaire’s body shiver again next to his own. He wants to throw his arms around him and pull him close, so close that they won’t be able to breathe, or maybe they can breathe each other. Enjolras had naturally gone to the rooftop worrying about tomorrow’s protest, working plans in his head, meeting points and hours, security arrangements and words to stir the faith in the people. His adrenaline levels had jolted to the top, just by thinking of his natural state, of his place between the crowds, the upheaval of purposes and ideas burning inside his chest. Yet now it all seem trivial, not because they aren’t important for Enjolras anymore, but because they suddenly can’t be with Grantaire outside the frame. He wonders if Grantaire’s faith would ever be strong enough to follow him there, even when his point of view is so obscenely cynical. Maybe Grantaire could just try, maybe there is _potential_ inside him that he doesn’t allow on the surface, but Enjolras had almost forgotten: Grantaire hates that word.

“Are you okay?” his feelings of worry, and hope, and anticipation, are reflected on the tone of his own voice. Something leaps in the pit of his stomach when he turns around to assess Grantaire’s appearance. “You don’t seem okay.”

Grantaire shrugs his shoulders. “You could say I've been missing a tall blonde,” he says sarcastically and Enjolras’ insides clench ominously. “My beer.”

“Should I pretend that got me by surprise?” he frowns disapprovingly, regretting his tone shortly after.

“No,” Grantaire’s blue eyes flash with sarcasm as he turns around to offer Enjolras a cold, crooked grin. “You shouldn’t.”

Then he fumbles in his pocket for a small plastic bag, and it takes a while for Enjolras to realize what’s going on. “No,” he hears himself blurting out, his insides knotting like rope. “Just, no. Do you think this is a decent fucking solution?” he heaves a sigh, narrowing his eyes with repulse. “This is just… plain cowardice!”

Grantaire has already lit the joint that’s making Enjolras’ head heavy. He slowly turns to face him, and his frozen features feel like a punch in his stomach. “Not all of us are brave knights of liberty, Apollo. Not all of us show prowess by clenching our fists,” he spits to the sky with a mock-determined glint in his eyes, “and… and shouting slogans in some stinky crowded street…” He looks breathless, as if he’d invested tons of physical effort into his cheap snark, unpracticed and pathetic and free of his usual wit. Half of Enjolras wants to punch him, kick his gut until he can shove some sense into him, watch that horrible, cynical smile die off his face, half of Enjolras is furious.

Grantaire is breathing heavily, a waxy pallor spread over his skin, and the other half of Enjolras is feeling sick. “Stop,” he breathes, almost desperately. “Just… stop. I don’t know what the fuck’s got into you but I don’t want to fucking fight, okay? Not anymore.”

He receives no reply, just Grantaire brings the joint between his lips and sucks a thick, silver drag of smoke. It all happens very quickly. Enjolras somehow loses control, he strikes Grantaire’s forearm with the back of his hand and knocks the joint from his hands, throwing it from the roof. Grantaire looks numb, silent, not pissed off enough, not dumbstruck enough, not _feeling_ enough. Grantaire is never silent and Enjolras feels on the verge of a panic attack. He clutches both his hands, feeling his blood pumping through them. “Your hands are trembling,” he snaps hoarsely, as if it is Grantaire’s own fault. “What’s wrong with you?”

“I need a drink,” Grantaire croaks wearily, not trying to pull his shaky wrists away from Enjolras’ frantic grip.

“You _always_ need a drink, don’t you Grantaire?” Enjolras hisses, letting Grantaire’s hands drop and turning his face away.

Grantaire patiently unwraps another rolling paper, settling his slumped figure back against some bricks, his face lost into the night. “You see, Apollo, it’s inevitable. You can go ahead tomorrow, martyr yourself for freedom in your mighty war, become Liberty and lead the people against the police barricade. You can try and live in your delusions in a Delacroix frame, while all I’ll ever be is Gros’ apprentice.”

“Well,” snorts Enjolras acidly. “That’s your problem.” A paralyzing feeling freezes his limbs, but it’s too late. Grantaire has stood up, his smoke between his lips. “Grantaire,” he starts off, regret palpable in his voice.

“You know what, why don’t you get off your marble throne savior complex and stop being a dick?” Grantaire mutters venomously. His hands are still shaking and Enjolras attempts to stand up and follow him to the ladder, but his ass seems to be stuck on the cement in the same way his tongue feels stuck on his palate. “Anyway,” he shoves his hands into his pockets, that’s all that Enjolras can notice. “Good luck saving the world tomorrow, Apollo, though I’m sure you won't be needing it.”

And with that, Grantaire gets inside.

Oxygen becomes a luxury again.

*****

_Never shall death be thine, who liv’st for ever. ~ Edgar Allan Poe - Aristogeiton and Harmodius_

He wakes up panting.

Cold sweat is dripping from his forehead, hair damp and t-shirt sticking on the skin between his shoulder blades. Everything is muted, from the blood in his veins to the spinning of the room. Only a dull buzzing in his head, pressing against his meninges. He’s hot, everything’s hot. He’s feverish and he’s aflame.

He can’t breathe because he died, he died again and he wasn’t alone only he is now. The room is dark and the walls are closing in slowly around him, piercing through his chest. One time. Then eight. There is blood and there is darkness and everything in between, there is light and he’s lost in it, in eyes bluer than the sky.

There is fire, and everything he’s lost in it, and a warm hand wrapped around his own.

He gropes his way to the kitchen in the dark. His throat is burning and he sips water greedily, resting his forehead against the cold door of the fridge. He feels a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“You okay?” It’s Combeferre.

Yeah, just stressed out, it’s the protest, it’s happened before, don’t worry Ferre, I’ll be fine.

Beheaded. Guillotined. Shot.

 _One time. Then eight_.

Go back to bed.

He presses his ear against the wall of his room. Nothing.

He falls in a dreamless slumber for a couple of hours. He wakes up with a foul taste in his mouth, to the lulling sound of the water as Courfeyrac takes his shower. Combeferre has coffee in the kitchen. He nods his way through his friend's incoherent words. The sky is stuffed up with grey clouds.

It is the morning of the protest.

*

The number of people gathered at the Place de la République make his chest swell and his pulse pound through his body. Enjolras is quite overwhelmed. They’re united under what seems to be the shelter of the same clouds and the same ideas, their faith tangible in the song that gives the rhythm to their heartbeats. For a moment there he’s them, he’s all those people and they’re him, there’s no middle path, their fists raised up high towards a sun that _must_ rise, their voices united for what’s bound to be their own, _equality_ ; all of them a yellowish page in a dusty history book and it goes on.

Combeferre is counting heads, rehearsed like counting a pulse, guiding their way through the crowd, and Enjolras feels safe. Courfeyrac is a vibrant vision, he’s the voice of the people, the stylish kid in the crowd with opinions that set them aflame, Bahorel is in red, fire himself, and Feuilly is leading the strikers. Joly is here, with a bad knee today, and Enjolras felt bad but Joly laughed and said he’d walk through fire for him and Enjolras’ heart grew three times. He’s with Bossuet and they press their smiling lips together between their chanting, carrying the first aid kit just in case but everything is under control, _the people have faith._

He’s never felt more powerful in all his life, speaking for the people he loves the most in the world, building tomorrow together on beliefs simple and pure and ancient, painted with light on the signs that they cradle. He turns around with a smile, vibrant and fierce, his angelic locks twirling in the wind.

And the smile freezes on his face.

There is a kid between the shouting people, laughing at a cop and running away, singing on the top of his lungs and holding a small impromptu sign with the misspelt words LITLE PEOPLE FIGHT. A little thing with crooked teeth and ruffled hair, dressed up in giant denim that belongs neither to him nor to his decade.

What _the fuck_ is Gavroche doing here?

His insides clench into a fist as he frantically starts searching into the crowd. Éponine is nowhere to be seen, and Jehan was here just a moment ago, cladded in hippie florals. He’s feeling bad and maybe he shouldn’t, it’s not his fault that the Thénardier children function like this but somehow he feels responsible, Gavroche shouldn’t be here, this doesn’t feel right…

But just then Marius shows up through the crowd and grabs Gavroche’s jacket, he looks just as worried and Enjolras feels relieved, the kid respects Marius and that makes Enjolras feel better, they mock argue until Cosette shows up with her hair and face painted with peace signs and slogans, she high-fives Gavroche and plants a kiss on Marius’ cheek which makes him turn red and they keep on walking with their signs up in the air.

_Grantaire’s signs._

Suddenly they’re everywhere, Enjolras realizes as his breath hitches on his throat. Not only the sketches Grantaire had made for the pamphlets and posters which are scattered all around, no. There is an _inordinate_ amount of Grantaire’s art, fierce and beautiful and _wild,_ on people’s t-shirts and on signs that they raise up in the air, violent colors and darkness between, his own artistic style taking over the sky, shouting words of freedom, words of a man _who believes._

And then, right in the middle, a colorful sign with psychedelic letters, odd and mismatching and _right_ as a punch in the guts.

NOTHING’S GONNA CHANGE MY WORLD

Enjolras stands in the middle of the tumbling city that seems to bind them together. For a moment there, everything is the same and they’ve been there, on the same cobblestone before, once, twice, eight times… The sky is grey and then it isn’t, everything is blue. Their eyes lock.

Everything goes to hell.

*

He doesn’t want theses streets, they aren’t his own. They can keep them, and the haze of stains of all the years, and all the darkness and defeat.

He’s drunk in tear gas.

They’re all cradling the ridiculous signs that he’s made and shouting a blur and he knows there’s nothing there to fight for but a sunray, he knows his purpose.

He’s not human, he’s the sun. He rises in between the crowd, a fist in the air, savage words bursting from thick, soft lips, his cheekbones can crash the crowd, the smudges of rose casted over his porcelain cheeks are blood and Grantaire had never thought of him less as human than now. He’s in red, everything’s in red but the halo of gold flowing in the air and Grantaire can’t breathe.

The security chains on the sides have somehow broken and people are getting in and out. Grantaire watches at the broken windows and violated cars, at protest-breakers vandalizing public property and stealing stuff from shops and he feels sick. This has gone to hell before anyone managed to notice, they were broken from the inside. There are tears in his eyes and in his throat, he can’t see, he’s choking. Police sirens are making his head spiral. There are counter-protesters and mere vandals and then there’s no one, they’ve all meddled together. Fanatic, idealist, cop or thief, it doesn’t matter anymore because they’re all tear gas and flames and blood, bloody noses and bruised knuckles, and demented screams, and in between the mayhem, Apollo. He sees the only people he’s ever cared for, raise their fists and shout in the air, the song doesn’t stop only now it comes out tainted, dark. It is now.

It’s a daguerreotype.

He sees him rise as a baton falls.

He’s frantically looking around for Éponine. She’s nowhere to be seen. Jehan looks wild in all his flowers, he’s fighting with a cop and Grantaire’s heart catches in his chest. Feuilly and Bahorel are throwing punches and then they’re getting arrested. It’s not time for heroes, it’s all in their hands and it’s all up the walls.

Grantaire looks around the haze and his insides clench tightly. He can’t find Gavroche.

His head is throbbing violently, he’s fading in and out of darkness because he’s been here before with the same sun shining up above his head, he’s going to die like he’s died before, an unaccepted Pylades and a miserable Patroclus, he’s betrayed the Achilles he believed in, he’s climbing on the police barricade and Apollo stuns him and he falls _and_ _he falls_ and he’s crashed because this is what he’s made for, they’re getting ready for their ancient funeral pyre, they’re the rock and the match and they’re lighting themselves up...

_Let’s just get gone, there is something I believe in here and I want to take it with me._

“He’s their leader!” someone shouts and Grantaire’s heart catches on his throat. He sees him, a savage Antinous fighting between the flames, there’s an elbow on his stomach and a fist on his jaw, then there’s blood –

_No no no no…_

He’s screaming but it’s muted. Then he’s falling, he’s falling and that’s all he knows because that’s what they’re made for.

For a breathtaking moment their eyes meet. Grantaire is wild. There is a distant feeling of warm fingers wrapping around his own, only they aren’t, not anymore.

Everything goes dark.


	15. It’s not right for young lungs to be coughing up blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “They let us down…”  
> “People do.”  
> “I’ve let them down, I should be there and instead I'm stuck here with you...”  
> “You have the right to shut up.”  
> Disgust’s boiling inside him and he’s hit with a dizzy spell which might as well make him explode. “You know what? I’d rather be arrested.”  
> “I’d rather you be too. But. Life, kid. She’s a bitch.”  
> “That’s a slur.”  
> “You’re repeating yourself.”
> 
>  
> 
> _Or the one where Bossuet shouldn't have talked to a cop at the wrong place, in the wrong time, Enjolras shouldn't be where he is, Cosette's dad shouldn't know about Marius in jail, and Montparnasse should have definitely given talking back at Combeferre more thought._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's obvious that I happened to watch Battle in Seattle while editing this chapter, because the scene with Bossuet and the police officer is almost copy-pasted but, cliché as it was, I also found it beautiful and I needed to include it in my fic. I'm sorry for the drama in this chapter, you'll have to know that our babies are about to get hurt as you read those lines but I promise everything will go back to its smooth, not-so-soap-opera flow (or maybe a little bit) during the following chapters. I'm freaking out a bit because holiday is coming to an end so don't mind me. Also I'm obviously bullshitting my way through the whole protest thing which made it all so difficult for me, but I tried to do as much research as possible and discussed the whole chain thing with people who've been into protests, so if it's really bad PLEASE do tell me so that I can change and improve it, okay? I love you all so much, thank you for sticking with me all this time! Another thing is that Pontmercy is my baby and I absolutely adore him but there is a chance that I've failed in portraying him _again_ and I'm possibly doing what I hate the most, making a caricature out of him. If I do, please please please discuss it with me so that I can improve that too!  
>  WARNINGS: Blood, mild injuries, police brutality  
> The title is from 'Time for Heroes' by The Libertines.  
> Opinions and constructive criticism are always more than welcome!

“What the fuck is wrong with you, why won’t you leave him alone?” Bossuet screams on top of his lungs, because Jehan’s delicate features are warped up with blood and Musichetta’s trying to hold him up and Cosette is sprinkling water on Joly’s face because there’s tear gas and Joly is _asthmatic_ god dammit! “He isn’t even _resisting_ you coward, would you beat up your own kid like that?”

Everything becomes sinewless. He can hear Joly’s hacked coughs and Musichetta’s hoarse screams and even though Cosette is managing to sneak Jehan away, something clamps in Bossuet’s chest.

The cop raises the cover of his helmet and Bossuet can see his terrifying, pale face, pockmarked and fuming, and next thing he knows he’s running like a mad man until his lungs decide to screw being lungs, he thinks of Joly and Musichetta, of Jehan’s bloody hair all over the place, spluttering blood on Cosette’s skirt, and he collapses.

He’s hit once, twice, on the face, in the gut, cowardly, a tooth, there’s blood in his mouth and his nose will never be the same again, he’s begging on the ground but armed cowards have never known mercy, not two hundred years ago and definitely not today, there’s so much blood that tastes like his own…

_All we are saying is give peace a chance_

“What are you doing, Jacob, leave him alone!” Someone’s shouting, another sop, he’s pulling him away and trying to help him up. Bossuet’s world momentarily fades to black, but only after he’s managed to glance at Jacob’s horrible face for the last time.

Then the air’s filled with a familiar scent, there are arms wrapped around his body, someone’s shouting again. Chetta.

“Oh my God can you walk? Come on, Cosette’s brought the car _oh my God…”_

They manage to stumble their way into the car and away from this horror and they’re all alive, and it’s a marvel. Joly is crying because he’s just had too much but he can finally breathe without the soaked bandana covering his face, _Joly who’s asthmatic_ is okay and he’s the reason so many people survived today and it’s a bloody wonder, and they get home and he patches Bossuet up and declares that he’s fine, he’s okay, nothing’s broken but a tooth and a nose, and Musichetta cries and everything _is a miracle._

She holds them tightly together and pulls them for a thousand kisses because they deserve all of it. Bossuet lays down to rest, but with Jehan it is a different story.

“We may need to go to the hospital,” Joly murmurs, palpating the boy’s sides in a fully collected, alarmed mode, yet way too exhausted and upset for his own good.

Jehan is thankfully fully conscious and has no head wounds that can rise fear of a concussion, but he’s looking miserable and there’s just too many things that Joly is not sure about. “Please no,” he moans a bit breathlessly, curling into a fetal position to reduce the pain in his abdomen. “I wanna stay here.”

Musichetta, trying to gently wipe Jehan’s hair and swollen face clean of the blood, turns to helplessly stare at Joly, her gaze demanding to know what exactly concerns him.

“Nothing feels broken, right?” Joly mutters and Jehan nods, his face spasming with pain as he does so. “Your ribs seem merely bruised, but maybe they should check for internal bleeding…”

“Can’t you?” Jehan half groans – half chokes pitifully, tugging on Joly’s hand. “I really – _ah_ … _really_ don’t want to go there…”

Joly bites the inside of his mouth nervously. Allowing a seriously injured and possibly shock-induced friend decide for his treatment feels absurd and unorthodox, to say the least, but he’s never seen Jean Prouvaire more desperate and vulnerable than now, bloody and clinging on Musichetta for comfort, and it really is beyond him to leave his side. “Do you think he’ll be okay if we keep him here?” she looks at him questioningly, smoothing Jehan’s hair with her soft fingers.

Joly sighs tentatively. “Jehan, can you lie down?” he eventually relocates the boy’s torso with gentle, careful movements.

“Where’s Courfeyrac?” Jehan coughs silently, allowing Musichetta to help him back on the couch.

Joly meets her uncertain eyes and shuts his own tightly in despair, rubbing his forehead before returning to his patient, even though he knows Jehan can see him behind swollen eyelids. “I’m sure he’s fine, Jehan.” His hands move over his abdomen, probing and kneading and causing him to wince. “No internal bleeding, I think. You need to rest though now, okay?”

“You don’t even know where he is, do you?” Jehan’s lips quivers, curling back into his previous position and allowing tears to flow freely on the pillow he’s tugging onto. “If something happens to him…”

“Baby, Courf knows how to take care of himself. He’s done this before,” Musichetta murmurs softly, brushing the stiff, damp hair off Jehan’s clammy forehead. “We were all split apart, I’m sure the others are together and fine, and they’re going to call, sooner or later.”

“If it doesn’t go right, it will all be my fault…”

“ _Nothing_ is your fault, and promise you’ll calm down and rest, okay?” Joly says, his voice breaking a bit around the edges. “If you don’t want me to regret keeping you here. Try to lie on your most painful side, absurd as it may sound it might make breathing easier…”

“I’m scared, Joly,” Jehan clutches on his sleeve, his voice small and broken. “I’ve never been that scared…”

“We’re all scared, love,” Musichetta’s fingers tangle with his own.

“If anything feels out of place, if you’re dizzy or short on breath or anything you’ll tell, okay?”

“If you hear anything from him,” Jehan turns around to face the back of the couch. “Promise you’ll wake me up.”

Joly turns to look at Musichetta. “We will,” he mutters, as their hands clasp together behind their backs.

*

He comes into light gradually, a haze of bright flashes before heavy eyelids. He wonders if he’s died; he’s numb and confused and his head is liquid. Going back to a state of giddiness feels like the most feasible solution there is, but a thick weight is pressing back against his meninges, snapping him awake.

The first groan comes out with hands fidgeting over his skin, callused fingers that sting, something warm dripping from his head, a faint smell of smoke and a breath of alcohol brushing on his face, a furious voice muttering stuff and shouting stuff _can’t you shut up_ …

_Maybe he doesn’t really want it to shut up._

“You said you wouldn’t die!” a hiss, and Enjolras groans again, trying to sit himself up. Something protests in the pit of his chest, there is pain everywhere and he reluctantly subsides to the hand that comes to press against his torso.

“Well I didn’t, did I?” he scoffs. Everything comes back to him in less than a blink when he finally opens his eyes, and his body spikes up with adrenaline despite the overall discomfort and the unidentified state of most of his limbs. “What are you – _ouch_!” he pulls away in annoyance. “Why aren’t we at the – _Grantaire_ what are you…?”

“I’m cleaning your battle wounds with brandy,” snorts Grantaire.

“Whyare - _fuckssake_ Grantaire the _protest_ …”

“You are unintelligible.” Grantaire rolls his eyes. “Also have you tried looking at your face?”

Fingers go peeking at the warm blood on his hairline. “What’s wrong with my face?” Enjolras seems to snap back into reality soon enough, throwing himself from the cushions in alarm. “Jesus, R, did you pull me away because of a _scratch_?”

Enjolras seems to have forgotten everything about sore muscles and bruised ribs and is trying to fight his way off the couch but Grantaire’s grip is stronger than his spinning head. “I must get back!” he sighs gravely, bringing the heels of his hands to press against his bloody temples, “God we’ve fucked up, I should be there, do you realize what might be happening right _at this moment_?”

“Shit going to hell, and there’s no chance you’re going anywhere past the hospital.” Grantaire takes his mobile from the coffee table and rolls down the contact list. “Actually, I’m getting Combeferre’s car for that. Sorry, Apollo.”

“Yeah like, yesterday,” Enjolras growls and tries to stand up, aggressively this time, cringing in pain when his foot touches the floor.

“Sorry, you’re not in the position to argue,” Grantaire quirks up an eyebrow. With his heart on his throat, Enjolras realizes that the man’s clothes are mirroring his own, ripped and covered in blood that’s going to dry there, but he doesn’t have enough time to worry over whom it belongs, since the realization of his absence from duty pangs through him at once. “You have a head wound.”

“It’s stopped bleeding!”

“It knocked you unconscious.”

There is a silent pause where Enjolras groggily rubs his eye, finally sitting up on the couch, trying to regain his composure. “Pain did.”

Grantaire’s eyebrow almost disappears under the mass of wild curls that’s scattered on his forehead. “It must be really bad to admit it.” He places a thumb beneath Enjolras’ chin to lift it and stare into his eyes. Enjolras knows a concussion assessment when he sees one, yet Grantaire’s eyes locked into his own do more harm than good to the state of his head. “Ankle?”

“Nothing, let me go.”

“You go, Rambo. Knock their fucking brutality down with your peachiness.” Much to Enjolras’ astonishment, Grantaire has already lifted his leg and gently propped his foot up his lap. Gentle fingers are probing on his ankle and Enjolras winces in pain.

“ _Ow_ so you’re a fucking doctor when you’re sober, now?”

“Shut. The fuck up.” Grantaire hisses, briefly shutting his eyes before lifting Enjolras’ ankle from his lap and replacing himself with a cushion. “ _Sorry_ I’m not Combeferre to pat your ass and send you back in that brothel of a street. I’ve been patching Bahorel up before you got your first fake ID to vote and you’ve got to respect that, kid. This is sprained and I fear there are bruised ribs.” He flashes a half relieved-half sinister grin. “Oh, by the way. Hospital is still happening.”

“Don’t you fucking dare, my name and photos are already around and the media have got me diwn as a terrorist!” Enjolras snaps up. His eyes are narrow and he’s breathing heavily, almost trying to heave up the disappointment clutching on his chest. “You’ve done enough already”, he hisses. It sounds like a death threat.

Grantaire falls silent. When he raises his eyes they’re frozen. “You’re welcome.”

“Listen, I need to go…”

“Sit. _Down_ your ass.”

“Where is my phone?”

“Nowhere that should concern you.”

“Give back my phone right the fuck now.”

“Rude.”

Grantaire maneuvers on the couch and holds Enjolras’ phone up in the air, dialing with his thumb. Enjolras eventually falls silent as they wait by the speaker, their pulse pounding dully to the beat of the phone.

“They’re not answering,” Grantaire murmurs hoarsely when Combeferre’s sound message fills the room. His voice makes something jump inside of Enjolras. He’s angry, furious. Anxiety is making blood pound in his meninges yet it’s different. Grantaire is keeping silent to drown his nerves down, fidgeting with a thread on his shirt, a button on the cushions or his own fingers. Enjolras realizes that Grantaire is just as worried as he is, if not more. His heart is a cacophony in his ears. “Call again.”

Grantaire does. “They’re not. Answering.”

“Turn on the news.”

That’s been a bad idea.

“They broke the chain!” Enjolras growls at the vileness on the screen. “And now they’re presenting the protesters as terrorists, as if our name isn’t fucked enough already! Someone broke the chain from the inside to vandalize and steal and blow shit up and they fucked the protest…”

“Yes dear, we’re sorry...”

“They let us down…”

“People do.”

“ _I’ve_ let them down, I should be there and instead we’re here playing Doctor...”

“You have the right to shut up.”

Disgust’s boiling inside him and he’s hit with a dizzy spell which might as well make him explode. “You know what? I’d rather be arrested.”

“I’d rather you be too. But. Life, kid. She’s a bitch.”

“That’s a slur.”

“You’re repeating yourself.”

Enjolras shoots him a dark glance. “Why did you even _come,_ Grantaire?”

They both jolt up as Enjolras’ phone buzzes on his hip. Grantaire’s reflexes are faster than his own and he shoves him out of the way, putting it on speaker.

“Enjolras?” Combeferre’s weary voice echoes in the room.

“He can’t speak to you right now, he’s too busy being a drama queen.”

“Is he with you?” Worry is palpable in the usually collected man’s voice.

“Where are you?” Enjolras shouts over the phone. “Did you guide them out?”

“He’s with Grantaire,” they hear Combeferre explain to the other end of the line. Mayhem ensues and the man raises his voice to return to the conversation. “We pulled some protesters out, Joly and Cosette gave first aid.”

“They broke the chains, Ferre.”

“Ah, I know,” Combeferre sounds violently older. “We don’t yet know if it was the job of provocateurs or just, you know…”

“Is everyone okay?” Grantaire interrupts, failing to maintain the calm in his voice.

“Uh, everyone’s safe, more or less. Jehan and Bossuet got in a pretty nasty fight but Joly’s got them. Other than that it’s a few bruises and scratches. Musichetta and Bossuet are trying to see about bailing them out.”

“Arrested?”

“Courf, Feuilly, Bahorel and Marius, now that you’re crossed out. They won’t let us see them _or_ provide them with medical assistance and I _know_ Courfeyrac was hurt and...” Combeferre takes a deep, shaky breath. “Also, we can’t find Gavroche.”

“The little shit...” breathes Grantaire, going pallid. “Ponine?”

“She’s got a sprained wrist, she’s with me right now, Cosette’s dad is a cop, she’s trying to get him help with Gavroche...”

“A COP? Do we know him?”

There is a distorted sound as Combeferre bites his lip. “Listen, Enjolras. Let’s not get into this right now.” His sigh cracks through the phone. “Anyway, you both okay?”

“I think he’s got a sprained ankle. I didn’t take him to the hospital, it’d be dangerous, but he’s hit his head.”

“Is he – shut _up_ for a minute guys, I’m trying to talk... Listen, Grantaire, try to stop the bleeding, if there’s any. We’re coming with Ponine and Joly, just keep an eye on him and don’t let him sleep or do anything reckless. Take some rest, you’ve done enough already.” Coming from Combeferre it’s not a death threat. It’s a trophy.

But darkness has hit Enjolras again, only it comes slowly this time, akin to the night that’s falling heavy and humid over the city that’s not yet ready to sleep it off. Grantaire’s voice as he answers to Combeferre, that despised, cynical voice, gently assuages his spinning head. The voice is a haze, everything is. There are fingers resting on his pulse. The touch is soft. He is in pain, and then he isn’t.

His eyelids fall heavy.

*

In retrospect, he should have listened to Grantaire.                                        

He’s tired of being called the smart and sensible one. He’s tired of having to take all the right decisions, of not being allowed to make mistakes. Because he’s made one, and now Courfeyrac is injured and in jail, Enjolras has left hospital with several bruised ribs and a concussion and Éponine has lost her brother. There’s only so much that Combeferre can take.

The first thing he does when he enters Grantaire and Éponine’s empty apartment with her, is wash the blood off their skin and clothes. He can’t really think straight, all he knows is that he needs hell washed off him, and he needs to rest.

“Will you let me clean up your face?” he tries to pin Éponine down on the couch, cradling a bottle of antiseptic and gauze.

“What about helping me find my brother instead?” she growls menacingly, throwing herself away from his touch.

“We’ve got people looking for him,” Combeferre follows her around the room, feeling weak on his knees. “There’s nothing that we can do better than them, he’s fine, Ponine. You know Gavroche, I’m sure he’s fine.”

“Oh I _know_ Gavroche!” she spits in sarcasm. “Listen, I’m not expecting you to _understand_ or anything…”

“I have three younger sisters, what _would_ _I_ understand?” Combeferre mutters coolly. Éponine says nothing but her eyes do and she sits down on the couch giving herself over for Combeferre to fuss to his heart’s desire.

“Have you tried calling him?” he asks in a concentrated voice.

“His phone’s off.”

“He’s probably out of battery,” Combeferre finishes masterfully patching her up, and brings his hands to gently squeeze both her knees. “Hey,” he murmurs gently. “He’s fine.”

“You don’t know even him,” she blows her nose.

“I know him well enough to be sure he’ll show up through the door until the night with a stray dog or merely explosives…”

“Merely WHAT?”

“Nothing, I was just kidding, please relax, okay? He’ll call. He’s not a stupid kid.”

“You say so…”

“Yes I do, I’m his tutor. Now listen,” he throws himself up, stretching his back and cracking his knuckles, feeling pain pierce across his spine. “You need to calm down and relax. I’ll make some tea…”

“Stop petting me, okay? I can make my own fucking tea.”

“Well excuse me but you’ve got a sprained wrist, you can’t possibly…”

“Good God gave me two hands, didn’t he?” she snorts sarcastically.

“Good God DOESN’T EXIST!” growls Combeferre, and immediately widens his eyes in horror, falling back onto the couch, positively exhausted. “Sorry,” he sighs. “I’m so, so sorry. I went through a smug teenage atheist phase,” he clears his throat. “I’m just… I’m a bit upset right now.” His hand reaches for her good one. “Just let me help you, okay?”

“I don’t need help,” Éponine replies through gritted teeth, picking with a bitten nail into the hole of her jeans. She’s startled by a knock on the door. Combeferre doesn’t even try to get in her way, and she’s already jumped to the other side of the room, a terrifying picture of menace, vigilance of a wolf, and the frenzy of paralyzing worry that comes a bit too fast.

Montparnasse is standing on the doorway with blood and dirt on his seducing leather ensemble, a dozen shopping bags in one side and an equally dirty Gavroche standing proudly on the other.

“I found him.”

“Nobody asked you to,” Éponine says blankly, dragging her brother by the collar in a manner that scares everyone in the room shitless, including Gavroche himself. “You little piece of _shit_ …” she growls, examining his appearance.

“‘mokay,” he pulls away defensively, dusting the sleeve of his massive denim jacket. “Just blew up some things, found some buddies of mine on the way…”

“My brother is… he’s a juvenile delinquent – I’ll deal with you _later_ ,” Éponine hisses at Gavroche, then snorts at Montparnasse’s general direction. “Is Mr. Glad Rugs over here a buddy too?”

Gavroche turns to Montparnasse who’s wearing a horrifyingly expensive pair of thug sunglasses and is resting against the doorframe. “Parnasse is an amicable acquaintance,” Gavroche declares seriously. “Sup, Parnasse?”

“Things…” Montparnasse mutters lazily.

“New sunnies?”

“Yeah, how d’you fancy them?”

“I don’t know, man, they’re pretty _shady_. Where’d you get them?”

Montparnasse lowers the sunglasses on his nose and flashes them an uncanny grin that makes their blood cold. “He ran into my knife _ten times_.” No one knows whether he’s joking or not and that makes the whole thing much worse than it already is.

Gavroche clicks his tongue disapprovingly. “That’s not very punk of you.”

“So, Parnasse,” Éponine gives him a sweet smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “I see you’ve been out shopping.”

“Oh they’ve got some excellent sales going on, sugar! Black is the new black.”

Combeferre, who had been silent up to that point, makes a step forward. “You don’t look neat enough for shopping,” he makes a gesture at the stains and wrinkles that add to Montparnasse’s attire.

“I couldn’t say the same about you,” Montparnasse mutters coldly, his eyes obviously resting on the bruises scattering their skin, and the bandage around Éponine’s wrist. “What’s the deal with Specks anyway?” he throws Combeferre a snide look behind his sunglasses. “I see you haven’t yet gotten bored of dudes you can _benefit_ from…”

“Fuck off, Parnasse,” growls Éponine.

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist, Ep. It’s just…” he gives Combeferre a onceover. “Your standards disappoint me...”

Before he’s even able to finish his sentence, Combeferre has thrown himself at Montparnasse’s neck looking downright terrifying, a vein throbbing on his forehead, his teeth gritted behind pursued lips. “You and your buddies meddle with a citizens’ protest once again,” he breathes, “you fuck with our chains _one more time,_ and I smash your sunglasses. In your pretty. Fucking. _Face._ ”

Gavroche watches in pure, unfeigned awe as Montparnasse hisses his despise at Combeferre, then grabs his bags and storms out of the apartment.

Éponine is standing there, completely frozen. “Why,” she mutters dumbstruck. “Just. Why.” She scrubs her face with her good hand and groans. “I’m not saying that I didn’t enjoy it, but it’s just _Parnasse._ Why the fuck would you care about what he fucking says? He’s harmless, he’s just so vain he'd turn into a dog just to lick his own asshole!”

Gavroche is whistling in awe while Combeferre breathes heavily, trying to regain his composure. “They fucked the protest,” he breathes mostly to himself, standing up. “I need to see Enjolras,” he mutters, walking at the door. “Sorry.”

*

When he left the house, he promised Joly he was going to the dentist to fix his broken tooth. Only he isn’t. Going to the dentist, that is.

At least not yet.

Because if Joly _knew_ where Bossuet was actually heading, still freshly bruised and swollen and limping slightly from one side, he most definitely wouldn’t have left him leave the house without supervision.

And that, Bossuet realizes with horror would have been extremely wise on Joly’s account, considering that his luck is such that he’s just come face to face with the cop that almost beat him to death.

Bossuet seriously considers running away because everything is seriously going to be haunting his nightmares and he’s still traumatized enough to um. No. Thank you. _But_ he knows his body won’t exactly respond to such a decision. So he takes a deep breath, but it is the officer who speaks first.

“Hey kid, stop,” the man raises his hand and it feels like the ice bucket challenge, only on Bossuet’s spine, who shuts his eyes and turns around.

“Listen, mate,” Bossuet says, a gush of injustice spurting inside of him. “I’m a laywer, well, sort of. I’m sure that you can’t arrest me for, what? Bumping into you? Being black? Peacefully protesting? _Breathing_? Having the shit punched out of me? Well, you can’t. I mean. Technically you _can_ now, because I talked back at you, but…”

“I wanted to say, I’m sorry,” the officer, Jacob, holds up a hand. “What I did. It was inexcusable.” He clears his throat and Bossuet swears he’s never felt more dumbstruck in his entire life. “My wife and me recently lost our baby. I mean… I know this is no excuse, just, I’m glad I saw you there because I wouldn’t be able to live with it if I at least didn’t apologize.”

Bossuet is frozen at his place, feeling his mouth dried out and his limbs completely numb. This wasn’t what he had expected, this most _definitely_ wasn’t what he’d expected when he’d come here and he doesn’t have the faintest idea of how he’s actually feeling right now. He’s shocked, speechless, his muscles are in pain and his mind dulled, he’s actually feeling like shit but he doesn’t know in which sense of the word.

“I don’t blame you,” he hears himself muttering. “I mean, I do, but this whole thing, what happens is beyond you, at some extent. You were doing your job, I guess.” The harsh, fearsome features of the man are pulled in a mask of silent pain and Bossuet’s heart plummets painfully against his ribs. “It’s not you we fight, we’re not just… I don’t know. _Rebels_ without a reason who want to fuck you up and call you names. This… thing we’re fighting? It’s bigger than us, bigger than me and you. Our enemy is your enemy, you just...” Bossuet groans, scrubbing his face with his hand. “For Christ’s sake, what happened out there was outrageous. I have no words to describe it and the worst part is that I’ve been through it before and I’ll be again, and it will always be unfair, and people like us will never be united in front of a common cause, and this is just sad, you’ve got to understand how sad it is…”

It is the turn of the police officer to be rendered speechless. His features have softened, his wide figure slumped away from Bossuet yet his eyes are fixed on him with, what is it? Confusion, consideration? Sympathy? He briefly takes his eyes away, inhaling a deep breath. There are dark hollows under his eyes and the sight falls heavy in Bossuet’s stomach.

“Come on man, cigarette?” he hears himself offering, taking the case of his pocket.

For a very long second, Jacob’s dark eyes pierce through Bossuet’s with utter disbelief, and then he slowly accepts a cigarette.

*

When Courfeyrac had told him to try and come closer to the interests of Cosette’s fathers, he probably hadn’t meant come closer with their _jobs._

Because Monsieur Valjean’s job is perfectly agreeable, Marius loves coffee shops and he might not drink coffee but he can still have all the other goodies, like those wonderful chou à la crème and the chocolaty eclairs and all the colorful macarons that Cosette photographs for her blog. No, Marius can easily share Monsieur Valjean’s interests, but the _other_ job, Monsieur Javert’s. No. Courfeyrac probably hadn’t meant landing himself in jail.

It’s not like he’s _scared._ Damn, he’s like, punched people today. On the face. Or at least _tried_ to aim there. He was willing to fight, and fight he did. He stood up for their rights, for their beliefs. He’s sure he even made Enjolras proud. No, Marius isn’t scared. He’s a perfectly sensible adult and a lawyer at that, who knew what he was getting into, what he’d defend with all his heart, had measured the consequences and had been willing to face them. Marius is not intimidated by a few police officers, no. The thing is, Marius is particularly intimidated by Cosette’s fathers. And he needs to get out, at some point. Hopefully this week. His grandfather will kill him if he doesn’t. But, then again, Cosette’s dads don’t need to know. Ever.

The problem is that Cosette went with Joly to help the injured and they lost each other amidst the crowd. And then things went a bit out of hand. And he got himself arrested. So Cosette doesn’t know where he is right now. Oh _Christ_ almighty, she must have worried herself sick.

He’s a lawyer. He knows the law. He’s going to slam his fist on the bars and demand the fuck out of his rights.

Well, let’s say that the first part didn’t really work. This is going to bruise. But he _is_ nevertheless going to aggressively demand his rights.

“Your call, kid?”

Marius jumps up a meter high. “My call? Oh yes, my call. Should I… this way? Yes, uh, thanks!... You’ll stay here? Uh yeah, perfectly fine, sure – just, uh the phone fell, I’m okay – yes? Cosette? Listen, remember that day when the handle got stuck and I was locked in the bathroom?”

“No one will ever forget about that day, my dear boy.” Ah. So. It’s not Cosette.

“Right. Uh, Monsieur Valjean, it seems I… I got myself in a kinda… sticky situation again.”

“What’s happened, Marius? Is Cosette with you? She hasn’t yet returned home.”

“No but let me assure you, Monsieur, Cosette is perfectly safe, I’m sure of it. She’s with friends. It’s me who’s…” Marius shuts his eyes tightly, taking a deep breath as he scrubs his face with the heel of his hand. “I’m a bit… stuck?”

“Where are you stuck, son?”

“I, uh.” Marius clears his throat, deciding there’s no other way. “In jail.”

Silence falls from the other end of the line. “Is it about that basset puppy you mistook for stray and brought home?”

“No, monsieur.”

“Hey kid, time’s up for that call!”

“What happened, Marius? Are you in trouble for stealing?”

Marius’ mind goes blank for a while. “What? No, of course not, I’m a lawyer!” Marius sighs tiredly. “Listen, Monsieur, for Cosette’s sake, I beg of you…”

“Tell us where you are.”

Marius returns to his cell half relieved-half confused and a hundred percent exhausted. Cosette’s dad is rich, he might be able to bail him out and then Marius will forever work to repay him, and he’ll take Cosette to Disneyland and make her happy and then her Papa will be happy and maybe he can influence her Pa too and they’ll all like him again…

Not that he can swear they like him now.

He’s quite proud of himself, actually. He’s dealt with the whole thing pretty well. He was rigid and demanding he got his call and they even brought him ice for that bump on his head. He knows he should be thankful but in society you have to also be intimidating, otherwise they’re not going to take him seriously, so when an annoying cop smiles sarcastically and asks “Sup, Freckly?” Marius decides to shout a last “I fart at your general direction, pigdog!”

And then he freezes on spot and his heart stops.

A terrifying dark figure is blocking his vision, heavy steps echoing in the cold corridor, making his few jail partners either whistle or wince back in fear. Outside the bars is standing Chief Inspector Javert in the flesh, clad in a long black coat, his grey hair perfectly combed with a ruler, his thick eyebrows shadowing dark eyes that shoot flames, lips pursued tightly together and Marius knows he isn’t gonna hear the end of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a [tumblr ](http://lepoeteimaginaire.tumblr.com/) which recently reached 500 followers and in order to show you my immense gratitude, I'm hosting a [fic giveaway](http://lepoeteimaginaire.tumblr.com/post/95722079971/500-followers-fanfiction-giveaway#notes), come say hi!


	16. A wonderful part of the mess that we’ve made (we pick ourselves undone)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re drunk,” Enjolras breathes incredulously, as if he’s made the most shocking revelation there can be. “God, you’re drunk and I’m not going to listen to another distasteful word that comes out of your mouth. I’m tired, Grantaire. I’m so tired of all this…” he turns his head away and still Grantaire knows his eyes are cold as ice and he’s drowning in them, numb and frozen, and his guts just asked to be puked…
> 
> “Oh, so it’s ad hominem, isn’t it?” 
> 
> “ _Yes_ Grantaire, ad hominem.” Enjolras snaps back, almost in desperation. “Because this isn’t you. I hoped this would work but it can’t and it won’t,” he suddenly looks exhausted, ready to collapse, and Grantaire is scared shitless _he’s scared he’s scared_ … 
> 
> _Or the one where rules don't apply when you're Feuilly and Bahorel, Courfeyrac realizes it was too easy to be true, Marius joins Cosette and her fathers for lunch, Eponine and Combeferre stargaze, well, a lot of shit happens, and it looks like Enjolras and Grantaire's relationship has come to a halt._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has taken painfully long, but I had been working on a giveaway fic with Feuilly and Bahorel in prison, and it took quite a while since I wasn't familiar at all with the AU. Now I'm trying hard to write the last couple of chapters for this story, but it's a bit difficult to get in the mood since they're mostly summery chapters, and here in Greece it's finally started looking like autumn. So, a few words about this chapter: The Feuilly/Bahorel thing. I love them. I really do. I hate writing them cliché and OOC and I had told myself I wouldn't, but then I tried to write this scene which took me more than a week, and it simply couldn't work because ugh. So if you think it is cliché and OOC, please tell me and share your alternatives with me so that I can make it better! You know how scared I am of writing my darling Pontmercy baby as a caricature, Marius is just completely self inserted in this chapter, it is practically me, so please don't think I'm intending him for comic relief. Also, it's like, the 16th chapter. As a cliché fic that respects itself, this is probably the point where all the drama explodes (as if you haven't had enough already, but hey, it's me you're reading, what do you expect?) and it's obviously going to be fixed, but it will probably torture you - and me - for a while first.  
> If you've reached up to that point, reading this shit and actually waiting for more, encouraging me and not hating me, I honestly have no words to thank you properly. You're a blessing and you all deserve puppies and Halloween treats. Thank you so much for everything, I really hope you'll enjoy the rest of this story!  
> Title is from Bastille's Flaws.  
> Opinions and constructive criticism are always more than welcome.

There is a number of shit that Bahorel had actually bargained for when he first settled for _the wild life,_ as Grantaire calls it, but a sleeping man breathing peacefully like a dark-skinned dishevelled angel who has adopted the people - including the Thenardier siblings - with his head propped up his lap definitely isn’t one of them.

God he’s been hanging out with Jehan way too much…

“Hey, fuck face,” Bahorel hums gently, nagging Feuilly’s shoulder, earning nothing but a sleepy grunt. Bahorel shakes Feuilly a bit harder. “It’s time to wake up _,_ my sweet ginger fuckshine!”

Feuilly’s fist lands straight on Bahorel’s jaw.

Getting a boner in a jail cell is another thing Bahorel never signed up for. This is so infuriating that it’s got to stop. Bahorel’s got to place some fucking boundaries.

“THE SUN SAYS HU-FUCKING-LLO!”

Feuilly throws himself up at Bahorel’s throat, holding him against the cold cement wall and he’s so disheveled and freckly and cute and _terrifying_ that it’s ridiculous. “I will hit you so hard it will make your ancestors dizzy," he snarls.

See, some people have talents, like, knitting socks for house elves or bake shit or draw. Now, Feuilly has eleven, and one of them is quoting Disney in his sleep.

Looking at the bright side of things, at least that got rid of the boner problem.

“Woah, okay, calm your tits, you’ve been like, sleeping on me!”

“Oh your life must be hard,” Feuilly snorts groggily, sitting himself up and rubbing his eyes and _shit he’s so cute_ he can go fuck himself with a lamppost.

“For one, I won’t have you drooling on my new cutoffs,” growls Bahorel, “Also a brief reminder that this form of… intimacy – all the cuddling and shit – man it _must_ be against the rules!”

“Aw, rules they taught you at Law school, no doubt!” Feuilly nods solemnly, sarcasm palpable in the tone of his voice.

“No, asshat, they’re rules about no involvement your freckly ass decided to place!” growls Bahorel.

“That’s because I have no time to deal with your inability to figure out what _you_ want and then you go get pissed because I’m _sleeping_ on you!” Feuilly repeats absurdly. “Like, this is fucking abysmal! You do realize you’ve been tucking me up in bed and bringing me bloody abrigotines at work – _when_ you forget being a dick – for over a year! I believe we’re already past a certain level of domesticity!”

“But isn’t that what _you_ told me to avoid?” Bahorel asks, a bit disoriented. “That day when you threw the annotated version of the Communist Manifesto on my head because I suggested you may have… you know… man feelings for me?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” snorts Feuilly. “Also, the _annotated_ version of the Communist Manifesto is nowhere near that heavy to make your humongous manly ego combust, because _man feelings_ , seriously? You do realize how homophobic _and_ sexist that sounds?”

Bahorel groans, running a gigantic palm over his face. “Why do you always have to make anything sound so grave? I just, you know, I’m not normally into guys, is all…”

“You’ve spent the past week with your dick shoved balls deep up my ass and you know, last time I checked that surely involved being just _a_ _tiny bit_ into guys.”

“Yeah, or maybe just a tiny bit into YOU.”

Feuilly’s eyebrows almost dissolve under his puffy ginger curls. They don’t even realize that they’re standing inches apart from each other, jaws tight and fists clenched close to their bodies.

“Will you two KEEP IT DOWN?”

“YOU keep it down!” Bahorel flails his arm angrily to the cop’s general direction. “I know my rights, I’m a lawyer!”

“You spelt dickhead wrong!” Feuilly snorts back a sarcastic chuckle.

Bahorel makes a step forward, towering Feuilly, all fierce tattoos and intimidating muscles.

" _Hey_ , keep THE FUCK off of each other!"

“Banner?” asks Feuilly huskily, “now's the time to get angry.

"That's my secret, Captain," Bahorel plays along, closing the distance between them, his breath brushing heavy and steamy on Bahorel’s skin… “I'm always angry...”

Their lips clash, bruised fingers tugging on each other’s shirts, stumbling towards the bench. It tastes of blood, ash and sweat, and at the abstract possibility of tasting _pancakes and coffee_ off of each other, they can’t force back the obscene smile that comes to be shared upon their lips. The unfortunate police officer swears that he’s a hundred percent done.

*

This isn’t a thing Courfeyrac’s going to debate. It holds no questioning. He’s had it easy in his life, that’s a positive reply to an ostensibly absurd question, and there’s no occasion when he’ll ever pretend it wasn’t anywhere close to that. Easy. Fulfilling. Wonderful family. Spectacular friends. He was smart enough for school to be a piece of cake and cheerful enough to not be affected when it wasn’t. Even as a member of an LGBT family, his life hadn’t been that challenging, he was privileged, free of any sufferings, and he recognized that as a motivation to help others. He’d grown up showered with love and learnt to redeem every breath that he drew by giving it back. He’d had astounding experiences, people and places that came and went leaving behind a bittersweet aftertaste but it was always okay, it all happened the way it felt it should. Forgiving was the only obvious way to go yet there was no mercy if forgiveness wasn’t deserved. Things made sense, that was what Courfeyrac had learnt as he grew up.

It wasn’t that he hadn’t been disappointed. The world didn’t flow as simply as he’d like it to. People didn’t always respond the way he’d expected their humanity to order. His own privilege frustrated him, still he’d had some of his dreams shattered. What Courfeyrac didn’t lack in passion, he lacked in pessimism. He was radiant, determined and dreamy, he fought with all his heart for a change he was sure he could make, he ordered the universe to function fiercely enough around him, bright and optimistic like a song, still in practical matters he held one more slice of realism than Enjolras did.

Long story short, Courfeyrac has always had a grip on his life.

That, until he doesn’t.

The thing is, Courfeyrac loves the people and most people tend to adore Courfeyrac. He has always given the full of himself in a relationship, any kind of relationship, yet he knows uncertainty is part of the human condition and, when it happened, he faced rejection with a smile. It isn’t that he hasn’t dealt with it yet it always seemed fair, it just wouldn’t happen and there was a plausible reason, most of the time. 

Now Courfeyrac is just hurt, and there’s no explanation.

Maybe it all just happened too quickly, it’s not his first time in a failed protest, it’s not his first time in jail, it’s not the first time he’s given everything to another human being only to realize it’s not going to work. This time it’s just too much. He feels deceived when he knows he shouldn’t, deceived by the people he will forever be fighting for and by the man he feels he won’t stop loving until his heart dies. None of it is his fault, and Courfeyrac is in tears.

The thing is, he’s exhausted, he’s hurt, he lacks sleep, he isn’t feeling well at all and no one is willing to help him because there _is_ no justice, he’s in so much pain and every time his eyelids manage to slide shut there is a sound that rouses him, and it’s a torment.

He’s almost managed to doze off, when the sound of the cell door creaking open startles him.

Courfeyrac is left there gaping, forgetting everything about his spinning head and the wrecking pain that burns through his muscles, because Bossuet is standing there, a smile spread over his swollen features.

“What – what the fuck, man?” he cries. “They didn’t _arrest_ you!”

“Nah, my gorgeous ass just came to give his regards,” Bossuet waves his hand in the air dismissively. “It’s a huge story that I’m going to tell to your children so that they look up to me instead of you.”

Courfeyrac forgets to shut his slack jaw. “Go suck a fuck,” he finally manages to roll his eyes, his voice gentle and affectionate, “what the _fuck_ happened to your face?”

“Humongous story, I tell you, it involves Bond girls and half of the Rocky Horror cast!” Bossuet kneels on the cold bench next to Courfeyrac, fingers lifting his chin to have a look at his bloody face. “Seriously though, you okay?”

“Peachy. Listen, don’t get mad, but I think I’ve broken my arm…”

“Shit man, this is some serious shit” Bossuet cringes, “haven’t you, like, _dematerialized_ of pain or something?”

“I’m still conscious and majestic, so, no,” Courfeyrac winces in pain, throwing a look at his useless arm, propped on his jacket, “They won’t let me see a doctor so technically I’ve no other option.”

“You can’t get over a broken bone, here, I’ve got this!” Bossuet leans over with horrifying confidence, and Courfeyrac pulls away in horror.

“ _Woah-_ woo-hey I don’t care that your boyfriend taught you stuff, don’t you fricking _dare_ shit around with my glorious bone structure!”

Bossuet acts hurt. They remain silent for a while. Courfeyrac is honestly three shades more optimistic now that he’s not alone. “Cozy little place here,” Bossuet grins sarcastically, patting the bench.

“If you squint,” Courfeyrac oof’s in pain, shutting his eyes tightly and taking a deep, sweaty breath. “I can’t, _Aigle_. I’m too old for this shit.”

Bossuet raises an eyebrow. “I’m not gonna comment on that,” he punches Courfeyrac’s healthy arm lightly, still causing him to gasp in pain. “Hey, don’t be like that, it’s so out of character it upsets me!”

“Apparently it isn’t,” sighs Courfeyrac, throwing his head back against the cold cement wall in exhaustion.

“Listen, Jehan has been asking for you. You’re all he’s been asking for!”

That causes Courfeyrac to look up, pain palpable in the silence. “How is he?”

Bossuet scrunches up his nose and Courfeyrac almost dies a thousand times, his heart plummeting in his chest, but then Bossuet’s phone buzzes and he pulls his out of his pocket, opening his eyes widely at the screen. “It’s Cosette, baby.” he says dramatically. “We’re saved!”

*

No, really, Marius _wants_ to apologize. The thing is he can’t even gulp. At the same time his heart is doing a strange thing, because behind the horrifying figure of Inspector Javert, appears his darling Cosette in different clothes than the ones she had been wearing in the protest, a flowy dress of Musichetta’s, soft skin of peach and rosy lips, her pearl teeth smiling sunshine into his dark, greasy cell, her beautiful blond hair braided atop of her head and she looks stunning like an angel descended from the heavens, like a vision coming to heal the abased and tormented, she’s burst out of a fairytale, or maybe of the work of that painter Grantaire mentioned, what’s his name… Bossuet? No, that can’t possibly be his name…

“Give me a reason,” Javert hisses in an ostensibly calm manner, a vein throbbing on his forehead, “ _just_ _one_ _reason_ to get you out of this cell.”

“I… I’m wearing your socks, sir,” Marius answers helpfully. “Mine were in the laundry.”

Javert hits his face with his palm and looks to be struggling to maintain his composure, but Cosette gently rubs his arm as he hands forth a paperbag that smells of baked goodies, and Javert finally nods curtly for a police officer to unlock the bars. Cosette boops his nose. “Hello, beautiful! We’re getting lunch with Papa and Pa!”

And to this day, Marius is still confused as to how he was bailed out of jail.

No but you see, maybe that was what Courfeyrac meant after all. Maybe this is some kind of a special bonding process with Cosette’s dad, because they’ve gotten in a police car, and Marius has never ridden a police car before. Of course Monsieur Javert doesn’t say a word during the ride, and he shoots Marius murderous glances through the mirror that make his blood freeze in his skull. Marius is calm though, because Cosette is dealing with it all perfectly, perfect, darling Cosette, with her sweet compliments and warm croissants, even though Javert refuses to take some while driving because eating will distract him from the road, but then they stop and he starts chewing aggressively, not even a single crumb falling from his mouth and Marius must say he’s impressed.

“Pa bailed Feuilly and Bahorel out too, isn’t that so good of him?” Cosette chirps from the front seat and Marius rushes to nod a bit more than zealously.

“Oh yes, it’s very good!” he frowns, gradually coming to his senses, “we owe you our lives, Sir, and we would owe you _more_ if you hadn’t locked peaceful, _injured_ protesters up…”

“Peaceful protesters?” growls Javert, pulling the brake in front of a little brasserie. “That Viking friend of yours practically _harassed_ my colleagues and if it were up to me I’d let him _rot_ behind the bars. In my days such foul treatment by the law was out of the question for juvenile delinquents. But don’t worry, Monsieur, you still are under strict supervision!”

Marius wonders how he’ll be able to down his food with Javert looking at him that way in the restaurant, resisting the urge to punch some sense of actual _justice_ into Cosette’s dad, but Cosette squeezes his hand and helps him out of the police car, or rather, helps him not bang his head on the ceiling, trip over the pavement, or land over a furious Javert on his way to the restaurant door, which would be a real tragedy.

Marius’ head feels heavy. It’s a bit hard to convert from the dizzying, bloody mayhem of the streets and the blood-freezing fear of jail to the tranquil, charming atmosphere of a small brasserie in Rue Saint-Dénis, and process that all this is part of the same day. Monsieur Valjean is already hidden behind a menu. He greets Marius with a sigh and Marius is very ashamed, to say the least, but Monsieur Valjean is a kind, respectable gentleman, and the first thing he does after kissing Cosette, is place a comforting hand on Javert’s shoulder. “Now, mon cher,” he says gently, “you know how I believe that jail is not, um, a determinant element to judge one’s character.”

“What you believe, Jean, is none of my concern,” hisses Javert, denying the menu he’s been handed.

Also when Courfeyrac said that usually there is one parent of the Girlfriend with whom you may get closer, Marius is sure he didn’t mean that would happen because that parent is an ex-convict.

“At least we’re lucky it’s not about the basset puppy holding charges against us for kidnapping him,” Valjean tries to diffuse the tension.

Basset, that’s his name.

No that’s Napoleon, the dog. And Marius misses him. Terribly.

“This is all your fault, Jean, for letting Cosette go around in society with corrupted communist youths…”

“That’s what my grandfather calls me, Sir.”

“Your grandfather is right.”

“So what will you get? I hear the tortellini is excellent in this place.”

“Oh I’m _so_ getting tortellini, Papa!”

“PONTMERCY elbows off the table!”

“No need to be like that, I just got distracted…”

“Lunch time is sacred, no distraction is excusable! Also do you quarrel?”

“Quarrel, sir? No sir…” Okay, so now this whole conversation is about to surpass all stages of surreal.

“Pa, how would you like your steak done?”

“ _Well_ done, Cosette.”

“So, you met in jail, that’s so romantic?” Marius tries to hold small talk.

“Eat your baguette, Marius.”

“WHAT have I said about baguette in my house!”             

“Well technically, mon cher, we can’t exclude bread conversations from our household chitchat, since I _am_ a part café-part bakery owner…”

“And what have I SAID for keeping our professional life out of our domestic one!”

“Says you who brings a gun to our bed!”

Okay, now _that_ was a piece of information that Marius could have easily lived without.

Can old people even have sex?

“Jean, _ferme ta bouche_!”

Boucher! Ah, that was the artist’s name!

“So Monsieur Javert, you like donuts more than baguette?”

Javert falls silent and slowly narrows his eyes. “What. Why. Would I like bread with a hole in it.”

“I don’t know, sir. I assumed… Police officers usually do…”

There is a pregnant silence where even Cosette looks anxious. Javert slowly runs his palm over his face and heaves a sigh. “Listen, boy,” he says eventually. “I’ve had a tough day today. I had to go after the Thénardier kid, and the Patron Minette left their mark at several of the stealings following today’s horrible riot. Have you any idea how hard it is to maintain order in citizens’ lives?”

Marius swallows even though he’s started feeling slightly angry himself. “I’m sorry, sir, but it was not a riot, it was merely a peaceful protest...”

“Now,” Javert interrupts him, “I don’t like the people you hang around with. You sure are a promising youth with a potential legal career ahead of you. At this point, for your little mishap, I would consider grounding you for life but you’re not my son so this is out of my jurisdiction. I will very seriously examine, however, the possibility of letting you see Cosette again…”

Now Marius is downright furious. He’s a responsible adult who can take his own decisions and this man has just insulted the two things he holds dearest to his heart (well, aside from Cosette): his friends and his convictions. When Courfeyrac had told him that life with The Parents could turn out to be a bit hard, Marius was sure he hadn’t meant that he’d end up wanting _to punch_ one of The Parents.

“Don’t listen to him, Marius,” Cosette croons, “Pa is not that scary. He once saved a kitten from a tree!” She looks gorgeous, so Marius remembers Courfeyrac’s guide to successful seduction.

Courfeyrac had _definitely_ not meant accidentally playing footsie with Cosette’s dad under the table.

Then Marius remembers that Cosette’s other dad is carrying a gun, which results to him choking and having Monsieur Valjean do the Heimlich movement while all the other tables stand up and scream.

And the thing is, Marius has choked on bread.

*

He’s still somehow left as the unaffected one, the seemingly whole, the peachy, well-rested, vigilant mother-hen, sister of mercy of their group. Still, he knows that his friends didn’t make this arrangement, none of it is their fault, he can see in their eyes how selflessly they really care for him and how anxious they are when he takes no rest, and there’s nothing in the world he’d rather be doing than helping his best friends recover. It’s just that Combeferre is really, really tired, and there’s nothing they can do to help him. Their understanding is enough.

Courfeyrac tries to help him look after Enjolras, which results to a few broken plates and tears, and Enjolras tries to help him cook lunch, which results to him falling asleep over the boiling pasta. Eventually Combeferre decides that he’s never been more grateful for Grantaire. There is a silent deal of mutual respect and understanding that resulting from these agonizing moments and, even though there are few men who have more differences with him than Grantaire does, he rather appreciates the bonding over an aching, clingy Courfeyrac and a delusional, drugged Enjolras.

Enjolras needs the sleep and Grantaire doesn’t leave his side, so Combeferre grabs a bucket of ice cream and watches Monsters Inc. curled around Courfeyrac, which reduces them both to embarrassingly emotional wrecks. Combeferre places a tender kiss on his best friend’s brow and they fall asleep on the couch wrapped around each other. He wakes up after a couple of hours, feeling more tired than before. Courfeyrac is breathing peacefully, pain dulled away by exhaustion. He pleads Grantaire to try and get some rest. He worries, and he hates it. Something’s wrong with Grantaire but he’ll dismiss every suggestion. Grantaire convinces him to go next door with Éponine. Under different circumstances, there would be nothing that Combeferre would want more than that, but right now he doesn’t really know if it feels right.

She’s standing on the doorway like the first day he set his eyes upon her, her eyes cast with dark bags, oily hair and slumped shoulders. Only now she’s bandaged and bruised, and something in her voice has softened. “I don’t want this, Combeferre,” she mutters. “I don’t want you to save me, or… or to feel protective over me, this is not how I live.”

He’s crumbled at hello. “Should I go?”

There is silence. Then she steps back. “Come in.”

She insists on making coffee on her own. He’s too tired to protest. She joins him on the sofa, cross-legged. Her eyes are red-rimmed.

“This is not what you want,” she tries to convince him. “You’re different, you can’t understand this. I grew up needing to have a safeplace.”

“Let me take you there.”

They’re on the rooftop and she’s following his finger, mesmerized, as he talks to her of all the stars sewn over the incessant darkness of the velvet Parisian sky. The Sacre-Cœur is gloriously lit, piercing the sky on the hill of Montmartre in the distance. The moon is full and hangs aloft the veil of the sky, adorning their every breath with a tranquility they’ve been long ago deprived of. There was a time when Combeferre didn’t leave next door, she realizes, when Paris hadn’t yet brought them together, when Gavroche didn’t look up to him and she didn’t return every morning from work to find fresh croissants waiting for them, when she didn’t sneak them into the bar and steal hesitant smiles from the corner of the table. He brought in her life something she lacked, and she leans into it.

Her fingers trace over the galaxy tattooed on his forearm and she looks at him as he narrows his eyes behind his glasses and gazes at the stars. “You know, there’s not much in which I prefer Plato and his teleological cosmology most certainly isn't one of them, but there's just one bit that gets me."

“Uh?” she hums, absently stroking the stars on his skin with her fingertips. “Is that so?”

“You know,” his own fingers come to rest on the nape of her neck, feeling her shudder as he trails the bumps of her spine. “He described world as a living creature, not unlikely the Stoics who gave it Soul. Someone has to bear intelligence, a soul, since souls for Plato are tantamount to the ideas that are higher than the deceiving, non-existent physical objects. This bearer is the Demiurge, the Creator of a unique, whole world, a globe, since perfection and order is only found in round form and in the godly circular motion. Each soul takes part in that excellent circulation of the stars, before it forms a living being through its unison with a body,” he continues. “We’re all made in the heavens.”

“I thought you were a smug atheist. Who nonetheless will fight islamophobia and antisemetism to his grave, and still goes to churches to listen to classical violins. Also you turn to a sarcastic-piece-of-shit version of Mufasa sometimes, y'know that?”

“I am and I do,” he shrugs his emits a soft chuckle, turning to look at her. Her eyes are warm and he wants to be lost in the stars that glint in their darkness. “I mean, I don't know about the Mufasa bit, which would be quite high praise, but I know I’m a pretentious know-it-all, and sometimes I wish I knew what I _wanted_ to know.”

She chuckles hoarsely.

“There’s something about that Demiurge that I want to believe, though. Something about the Intelligence he breathes in every soul, every soul trapped into a star.”

They’ve been deprived of this since the party, deprived of all that she wanted. She had fought hard for that dignity through the years, and feeling it slipping through her fingers had made her burnt with shame. She doesn’t anymore. They’re starting afresh, and it hits her like a supernova. She knows she wants this.She _wants him_. A hint of a smile is touching her lips as she tilts her head and leans closer, shutting the stars away from her shut eyelids.

"You -" he breathes, "you alone will have stars as no one else has them..."

Her eyebrows climb. "Kant?"

Their fingers tangle in constellations. " _Le Petit Prince._ "

He cups her chin and kisses her softly. She wraps herself around him and takes it all in.

Some day she'll have to leave her safeplace and question the stars.

Not today.

*

He refuses to leave his side all night.

He drives him home from the hospital and assures Combeferre that he’ll can keep an eye on him so that he can go help Éponine. He gives Courfeyrac his painkillers and puts him to bed and then shares Enjolras’ bed, but it’s not all that romantic anymore. He barely shuts an eye, hissing to everyone who comes and threatens to interrupt the sleep that Enjolras had cherished and been bereft from, and he just lies there, watching his Endymion, monitoring his pulse, not quite dead but endlessly asleep. He’s shaking like a leaf, trying to get away from the ugly sound of his pulse pounding in the pillow.

He’s never needed a drink more in his entire life.

He dozes off somewhere around dawn, awoken by a plate broken during Courfeyrac’s effort of serving breakfast with one hand. He’s never felt more exhausted in his entire life. A tired, aching and sentimental Courfeyrac offers to help him, but it practically makes everything worse. Grantaire prepares him a Disney marathon and collapses with half his body hanging from the couch.

He sleeps very lightly and is thrown up with a gasp at Enjolras’ muffled grunts as he stubbornly tries to support his weight on his sprained ankle.

“You’re such a big idiot,” Grantaire sighs, throwing an arm around his lithe waist and leading him to the couch.

He’s never seen Enjolras look so uncertain, dizzy and confused, angry with himself and with everything around him yet too tired to do anything about it. Grantaire feels like he’s losing the earth beneath his feet _and he needs a drink._

“I’ve slept a lot,” Enjolras murmurs groggily.

“I know.”

“How much?”

“Uh, thirteen hours.”

“Shit.” It’s a tiny, miserable sound, and Grantaire feels his insides tighten. Enjolras nurses the mug with warm milk he’s handed with a distant expression, a bandaged foot and a bare one pulled close to his thighs. He finally raises his eyes to Grantaire. “Are you okay?”

Something melts inside Grantaire. “Yeah, you?”

“’M’kay.” His gaze falls on the TV and then back questioningly on Grantaire. “Anything new?”

“Nothing I know of.”

“We should see…”

“The doctor said no TV.”

Enjolras looks too tired to argue, which makes Grantaire feel even sicker. “Will you please bring me my laptop then?”

“No laptop. No technology. Just, not happening. Why don't you try to rest, Apollo, for once in your bloody life? Promise it won’t eternally scar your pride.”

“I need to type an email,” Enjolras’ voice gets impatient. “This. I have to do this, R.”

Enjolras recites the angry email to Grantaire who sends to several different receptors, then makes some toast, which Enjolras can’t really swallow down. Bahorel and Combeferre take Courfeyrac upstairs to make it easier for him but it doesn’t really happen. Enjolras is uncharacteristically quiet. Grantaire takes him by complete shock when he wraps his arms around him and carefully lifts him up against his chest, carrying him to Jehan’s garden.

“You’re fucking heavy,” he grunts when they’re there, rubbing his waist as he collapses between the colorful flowers.

“You didn’t have to carry me up here,” Enjolras sighs impatiently, with a shadow of hurt pride on his face, chewing on some dry biscuits Jehan has brought. “Besides, I could walk. Your back will get sore.”

“My back, my rules.”

Enjolras wraps his arms around his knees and rests his head on them, his bright, weary eyes fixed on him. Grantaire tries to concentrate, to stare back at him but his eyes cowardly drift away. Cold sweat is breaking on his brow, he can feel his skin turning to wax again, there are bugs under his skin and he can’t control his hands anymore, he’s shaking, all of him. He’s dry and cold and he needs to drink otherwise he’ll get sick, here all over Jehan’s beautiful flowers.

“You don’t look well,” Enjolras mutters, anxiously assessing Grantaire’s appearance.

“Why would you care?” Grantaire asks stiffly.

“The same reason that you do.” Enjolras lolls his head on the side, trying to catch Grantaire’s gaze. He feels his eyes burning on him. “You’re drunk off your ass, aren’t you?”

Grantaire turns around slowly, suddenly feeling hollow inside. Something ominous is ringing between his meninges and he shuts his eyes until it dissolves, only it gets worse instead. “Is that what you think? If that’s what you think,” he’s playing with his hands to keep himself from bursting, almost manically, until there is blood on the skin around his fingernail. “You know what, Apollo, I’m actually _here_ , putting up with your judgmental shit, while I should be at a job with great tips, which I’m practically risking.”

“I don’t know what you’re doing here either.”

Grantaire’s mask of frozen astonishment spreads a flush along Enjolras’ face and he shrugs his shoulders in his defense. “Well _sorry_ for that, but you ask for me not to die while _you’re killing_ yourself with every passing moment. How is this fair?”

“You’re obsessed with justice, Apollo,” Grantaire mutters dryly, his features gradually relaxing to their previous state of scorn. “You think you’ll deliver the world just because it flows wisely. _It doesn’t._ You won’t achieve anything just by thinking that way because everything’s a pile of fucked up _shit_ but that’s the way it is.”

“We won’t achieve anything,” Enjolras repeats incredulously. “That’s all you really want, isn’t it, Grantaire? To see all your friends be swallowed down together with their ideas, just to grant your enormous cynical ego with satisfaction. I don’t even know why you’re still here, why you were at the protest yesterday. You _want_ this cause to fail – oh no, you want to see _me_ failing more than anything… ”

“This is all about you, isn’t it?” chuckles Grantaire hollowly. His whole body is shaking with what seems to be a fixed pace, hands paralyzed, head light and spinning violently. “You’re trying to sell yourself as a valiant Orestes. God knows I _wanted_ you to be. But you won’t, Enjolras. Your marble throne won’t let you go past it. You’re damned to be Apollo, no matter how much you hate it, forever waiting for the Choeforoi to bear Libations at your feet.”

“You’re drunk,” Enjolras breathes incredulously, as if he’s made the most shocking revelation there can be. “God, you’re drunk and I’m _not_ going to listen to another distasteful word that comes out of your mouth. I’m tired, Grantaire. I’m so tired of all this…” he turns his head away and still Grantaire knows his eyes are cold as ice and he’s drowning in them, numb and frozen, and his guts just asked to be puked…

“Oh, so it’s ad hominem, isn’t it?”                           

 _“Yes_ Grantaire, ad hominem.” Enjolras snaps back, almost in desperation. “Because _this_ isn’t you. I hoped this would work but it can’t and it won’t,” he suddenly looks exhausted, ready to collapse, and Grantaire is scared shitless _he’s scared he’s scared…_ “Not while you’re drunk and useless like that, and your every word is poisoning us.”

Bile twists violently inside him, up to his throat but it’s blocked, it’s dry and blocked and Grantaire can’t breathe, they’re outside but the air is not nearly enough, it can never be as long as they’re together. “Fuck off,” he croaks.

Air is slipping through his fingers and then he realizes that other fingers, he hadn’t realized he’d been holding are slipping as well. He pulls away even though it doesn’t feel real anymore.

There was a hand clasped with his own, in some other lifetime.

_Not_

_today_


	17. On s'est connu qu'un moment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So I’m not supporting you well enough through your summertime sadness?”  
> Courfeyrac blinks a few angry tears away. “You probably think that aching from love is something… something for mere mortals to be laughed at!”  
>  _Mere mortals_. He can almost hear _him_ saying it, spitting it. And now Courfeyrac too.  
>  “Love!” he cackles. His hands are shaking uncontrollably. He feels Combeferre’s grip around his wrist, but he violently pulls away.  
> “Yes Enjolras, _love_ ,” Courfeyrac hisses. “You wouldn’t know about this, it would mean joining the human race.”  
> “Oh no, of course not!” Enjolras spits sarcastically. “Only you know of love, right? The supreme, the chosen one, our precious little snowflake, you!” 
> 
>  
> 
> _Or the one where the triumvirate collides, Marius is a blessing to humanity, Courfeyrac plays his last card, and the girls hang out._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of this chapter is from the song of Coeur de Pirate, Place de la Republique. This fic is steadily but not rapidly coming to an end, so I hope you can excuse me for the drama-induced chapter, hope it isn’t too sappy and ridiculous, but I tried to keep it as realistic as possible, I mean, Grantaire is depressed and the triumvirate are people with their own problems and passion that sometimes clash and collide and shit goes to hell. This chapter is more of a filler, preparing the fic for it's humongous dramatic climax which I'm writing right now (and God there will be so many song references I'm apologizing in advance for that).  
> Also Marius is precious and I adore him and my writing of him becomes more and more self-imposed because sometimes I’m Marius, but I really wish I was as a good friend as Pontmercy is, so I’m sorry for once again if my portrayal seems like a caricature to you, I mean more than well when I write my baby. The poem stanza Courfeyrac has picked for Jehan is Keats’s Ode to a Nightingale. Also I made an attempt to write a phrase in French and I’m sure I fucked up because I had no one to ask, I’m not having lessons right now to consult my teacher so yeah, PLEASE do correct and fix this, and forgive me!  
> IMPORTANT: I realized a part of my writing was phrased in a racist manner. I'm thoroughly sorry, I didn't notice and it was all my fault for not being educated enough and for not putting more attention in double and triple reading what I have written. I have rephrased it after some research, hoping for the best. If you notice anything that's racist or horrible PLEASE believe I'm extremely embarrassed and sorry, and report it to me immediately so that I can change it and apologize again, God.  
> Thank you so much for reading, I’m working on the next chapter where I promise to fix – and ruin – stuff, so thank you so much for your patience and for keeping up with this fic all this time! I literally have no words to show you my gratitude!  
> Opinions and constructive criticism are always more than welcome.

_Je t'attendrai au moins le temps de dire_   
_Que j'ai voulu prendre le plus grand risque_   
_Un soir qui m'a rendue bien triste_   
_Un soir Place de la République_   
  
_Coeur de pirate_

“Have you talked to R recently?”

Enjolras huffs, throwing his head back against on cushions and pressing a fisted arm against his eyes. “This really isn’t okay,” he sighs wearily, “what you’re doing.” Considering it’s Feuilly he’s talking to like that, the least they can all do is turn and shoot him an astonished glance. “You spend half of your day together, _of course_ you know if we talk. What exactly are you trying to make me tell you?”

Feuilly’s big dark eyes are looking away, somewhere between Combeferre and the wall as he slowly blows a tendril of smoke through his parted lips, and finally turns away from his cigarette. “Maybe I’m trying to tell _you,_ ” he mutters seriously, his eyes still narrowed in deep thought. “He’s been making an effort, you know.” Something ramps inside Enjolras. “He hasn’t drunk in quite a while.”

“Good for him,” Enjolras grunts.

“It’s really hard for him, Enjolras. Withdrawal can be really dangerous if not driven by the correct motives and personal, concentrated faith, and he’s not steady. He thinks very lowly of himself, no matter how much we may encourage him and, unfortunately, none of us is a psychiatrist, or a social worker. We hardly know what to do, and he needs as much help as he can get.”

Enjolras sits up, sighing heavily. His tangled fingers are fisted, he slowly lowers them from his forehead to rest them on his knees. “What do you expect me to do, Feuilly? As you said, I’m not a specialist. I’m a student, with my own life and problems.”

“As grave as your problems may be,” Combeferre says in a stern voice, in the attacking sound of which Enjolras fails to find any comfort, “Grantaire will at least need your acceptance.”

His head already feels stuffed, as if Feuilly’s smoke is peering through his own nostrils, pressing against his meninges until he’ll explode. They know they’re pushing him to his limits, they all know how much is _too much_ yet that doesn’t stop them, Enjolras realizes bitterly.

“He isn’t well, Enjolras,” Feuilly says slowly, leaning forward to force him to meet his gaze. “This… whole thing isn’t doing him any good.”

“Well, it’s not doing me any good either,” Enjolras replies coldly, tapping his fingers on the coffee table before abruptly stopping.

“I know you care for him…” Feuilly murmurs and it’s not true, not anymore. Feuilly is imposing all this upon him, it’s Feuilly who cares about Grantaire more than he’d ever care about him, Feuilly who has adopted them all…

Enjolras can feel it, and he knows he isn’t going to be able to breathe for long, not with all that fogginess in his throat and the heavy weight on the pit of his chest. “You don’t know anything,” he breathes.

Feuilly stands up with a speed that contrasts heavily with all his tranquil movements up to that moment. “You’re right,” he says blankly. “Maybe I don’t.” He picks his parka, nodding respectively to Combeferre and Courfeyrac. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he adds, before walking out of the apartment and letting the door behind him slide shut with a dull thud.

“You can’t do this.” It’s the first thing Courfeyrac utters in quite a while. It almost takes them by surprise. He looks changed, dark. His arm is still in the cast, and idleness is not a good look on him. There are dark circles under his eyes and washing his hair has gotten far from his favorite leisure activity. He looks as if he hasn’t even realized it’s summer, which has always been his favorite season.

“Well, watch me do it,” Enjolras turns around. He doesn’t know if facing him is exactly what he wants to do right now.

“Watch you ruin the group, uh?” Courfeyrac shouts. “God, I’ve never seen you being so selfish!”

“Courf, you’re being confrontational…” Combferre murmurs warningly.

Enjolras sits up, his eyes wide open in bewilderment, blood boiling mind-numbingly in his veins and pressing against his aching skin. “I’m not the only one ruining the group now, am I?”

“Enjolras…”

“Don’t you _dare_ get into this!” Courfeyrac hisses. “Don’t you even…”

“Don’t I even what?” Enjolras grasps on what subconsciously feels like the opportunity to prove he’s right. “Encourage my friend to spend his days moping for some guy?”

“Oh so you’re being a _friend_ now _,_ right?” Courfeyrac stands up, almost losing his balance and having to support his weight with his good hand on the arm of the sofa. “It’s high time you remembered it…”

“COURFEYRAC!”

“What, am I not supporting you well enough through your summertime sadness?”

Courfeyrac blinks a few angry tears away. “You probably think that aching from love is something… something for mere mortals to be laughed at!”

 _Mere mortals_. He can almost hear _him_ saying it, spitting it. And now Courfeyrac too.

“Love!” he cackles. His hands are shaking uncontrollably. He feels Combeferre’s grip around his wrist, but he violently pulls away.

“Yes Enjolras, _love,_ ” Courfeyrac hisses. “You wouldn’t know about this, it would mean joining the human race.”

“Oh no, of course not!” Enjolras spits sarcastically. “Only _you_ know of love, right? The supreme, the chosen one, our precious little snowflake, you!”

Combeferre is affronted. Courfeyrac is gaping, his lower lip shaking, childish, almost hysterical tears now streaming freely down his cheeks. “Go…” he cries hoarsely, “go _fuck_ yourself _,_ Enjolras.”

Enjolras stands up, his skull pounding violently, his insides all riled up. “I’ll go fuck myself. _Réfléchir un peu._ On what a _shitty_ friend I am.”

He storms out of the living room and locks himself into his bedroom, hyperventilating, summoning all the strength that’s remaining inside him to not throw up. He can hear shouting from the next room, it’s all incorrigible. And then it ceases. Everything falls quiet, apart from his agonizing breathing. He hears Courfeyrac’s broken voice as Enjolras pictures him nodding furiously at Combeferre. “Okay,” he says determinedly. He hears fidgeting through the door. Another door opens and then slams shut again. He hears noise, steps, the creaking of Courfeyrac’s closet, the thump of clothes being thrown on the table. He shuts his eyes tightly and grits his teeth, choking on his sobs as he lets burning tears flow freely on his cheeks, salty upon the corner of his lips. The door opens again.

“Okay.”

He focuses on the wall opposite his desk. He holds his breath, waiting for a sign.

It’s the last time, and he hears nothing.

*

He doesn’t know for how much time he’s been staring at the ceiling. Somewhere in those vague instants of recollection, those minutes when his mind momentarily snaps out of its relentless slumber and actually makes an effort to cooperate with the osmosis of senses in and out of his head, he realizes that it’s too gross, to pathetic a thing to be staring at. The previous occupant of his room had stuck posters everywhere, and no one had bothered to paint over the dirty marks of duct tape before they moved in, not even he, after they did, when they’d worked on the other walls of the room with their colors. It feels quite proper to stare at it, yet he wishes he could wipe it all away with a blink of his eyes.

Combeferre would probably say he’s clinically depressed. He can see Musichetta at work, he knows from her movements she fears he’s suicidal, and Éponine is becoming way too fussy, not letting him babysit Gavroche on his own, and all. He merely laughs at it all, maybe internally. At least they all agree he’s an alcoholic, and it’s almost pleasantly surprising how no one really bothered to check how _that_ bit was going. Jehan seems satisfied enough to see him going to work when he has a shift. They always say they'll go to the Rodin museum one of those days, to see Le Baise and Le Penseur, the hands that Grantaire drools over and La porte d'enfer that Jehan adores, but it hasn't happened yet, and Grantaire can't blame his best friend. None of his flatmates in particular needs excessive amounts of alcohol, or something like that, therefore no one buys it, and they hardly even realize he hasn’t either, they haven’t realized that no beer has occupied the fridge for a couple of days now. He’s all alone in this, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

He has to keep into his bed, partly because he’s too shaky and wobbly to make a step out of it, and too sweaty to bear with his disgusting self anywhere outside the covers, partly because there’s no way he can command his liquid limbs to obey his unconvinced mind.

Things hurt. His wrists do, for some reason. Maybe he slept on them. He faintly wonders whether he will ever want to draw again. His head hurts, so do his eyes. Grantaire knows how it is for your eyes to feel blood, in the literal sense of the word. They burn and tingle like open wounds, so the best he can do is lull them back to sleep.

He’s abruptly woken by a sound in his room, and the first thing his mind is inclined to assume, is that it comes through the wall, but it isn’t. He tries to adjust his bleary eyes to the lighting of some godforsaken hour in the morning no person with self-respect should be awake at, and he groggily turns around in his bed, only to be faced with a couple of wide open, giant doe eyes staring at him, and that’s apparently all that was needed to give him his strength and make him jump up in horror.

The room steadily fades into light, and everything becomes clearer. A startled, if not slightly worried freckled face is peering over him, fingers nervously wrapping and unwrapping against his bedside. “Good morning, R.”

“Jesus, Marius,” Grantaire croaks, immediately instantly disturbed by the sound of his own voice. “This… is not a good thing that you should do to your friends, okay?”

“Sorry if I scared you,” Marius raises both eyebrows apologetically, in synchronization with his shoulders and hands. “It’s just…” he sighs gravely. “I’m a bit out of it today, because Cosette is out with the girls and I won’t see her all day.”

“Oh, it must suck to be you,” Grantaire nods sarcastically, a glimpse of actual sympathy in his eyes, which he wipes clean with his fists.

If Marius is offended, it doesn’t show. “I had nothing else to do today. My grandfather learnt about my going to jail and was not thoroughly happy,” his voice is bitter and, under different circumstances, Grantaire would offer him a beer and sit the boy down to talk about it, “so I figured I’d come over to see how you’re doing. I was lucky to find Ponine to let me in before she left.” Practically it’s the same. The same thing that he would do with Marius, only reversed. The boy cares, even though he was an odd way of phrasing it. Yet Grantaire can’t deal with pity, not now. “We’re all worried about you, R.”

“Really,” Grantaire cackles dryly without realizing how wrong it sounds. “I’m touched.”

“Have you been drinking?” Marius asks seriously. “Ponine doesn’t know how to approach you, and you really must do something about drinking.”

Grantaire is already tired, and seriously considers burying his head under the covers so that he won’t have to deal with the concerned version of Pontmercy. “Trust me, Marius, I have it under control.”

Marius frowns. “It doesn’t look like you do, you know. You should get out of your room, it stinks in here.”

“Thanks.”

“No, really. You need a distraction.” The boy’s face is brightened by an encouraging smile, he places a hand on Grantaire’s shoulder with no much awkwardness, and Grantaire feels oddly touched. “Hey, why don’t you come over at our place so that we don’t have to clean up the mess in here?” He likes the kid’s way of thinking. “We could heat up some food and you could try drawing. I’m sure it would help!”

“I can’t draw, Marius,” he replies hoarsely. “You don’t just order for drawing mood to down upon you. Also, imagine me running into Cosette's dads? Yours truly probably looks like a gargoyle right now. Feels like one too.”

“What you need,” Marius mutters thoughtfully, “is inspiration.” Grantaire thinks he can almost see the flashing light bulb above his head. “Come on, I know a place where _someone_ found inspiration to paint!”

“Marius, I really don’t…”

“Go get dressed. I’ve Cosette’s car.”

And that’s more or less how Grantaire finds himself curled up on the front seat of a mint Deux Cheveaux, in his grey hoodie despite the summer heat, watching the city dissolve before his eyes, everything becoming greener and cleaner as Marius drives silently over the Pont de Saint-Cloud, at the highway towards Rouen. Marius is a surprisingly pleasant driver, making few, refreshing remarks, about the price of the tolls (which he insists on paying) or a pack of stray kitties at the other side of the road. Grantaire can almost feel the corners of his mouth curling upwards as he opens the window and lets the wind play with his hair.

“Here we are,” Marius pulls the brake, looking particularly satisfied with himself. Grantaire sits up on his seat and runs his fingers through his tangled, unwashed hair, his motion following the slow uprising of his head, using his hand like a lever. 

He stands there besotted, wondering how he hadn’t noticed the road to Giverny. “ _Monet?”_ he gasps. “ _That_ was the artist you were talking about!”

“Yes!” Marius grins widely. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

There’s a long queue of tourists waiting to enter Monet’s gardens and home, and Grantaire is in awe. “What… what are you talking about?” he lets a hollow chuckle, pocketing and unpocketing his hands nervously. “I have no money with me.”

“It’s okay,” Marius shrugs his shoulders. “I gave in a translation this week, I have some left.”

Under different circumstances, Grantaire would moan about the tourists crowding up for ridiculous selfies, pretend he was superior, the only one to understand Impressionism in this place. He’s not in the mood to do this now. Maybe he’s growing weak, naïve. Maybe he’s losing some of him.

He lets himself be summoned by the mirroring waters of the lake like Narcissus, smothered by the colors that whirl around dizzyingly.

 _Narcissus._ That’s not him. He’d wished he was in the past, when he’d brag about his lays, the freedom in his decisions – or in their absence – and the places he’d go, the people he’d meet. Now Narcissus’s limbs are tied with grapevine he never asked for, his locks sprung with gold and his eyes embedded with a little bit of sky. Narcissus is carved in marble and he’s floating on the surface like the virginal water-lilies, his pale skin reflecting the sun that’s penetrating through the willows, leaning down to touch him, to kiss him, but Tyrian wisterias are blocking their way, and the willows are weeping.

He feels bad for Marius. He’s so full of color as he wanders through the Clos Normand, among the flowerbeds and fruit trees, and Grantaire always tended to diminish him to less. He’s simple and true, like daisies and poppies, yet with a rare variety of brilliance, intelligence and kindness. Cosette’s luck is impeccable, Grantaire muses as they cross the central alley, the pandaesia of greens around the iron arches with the climbing roses that clench tightly around his chest. He’d assumed that Marius would feel uncomfortable to display affection to a friend, yet they’re casually holding hands as they enter Monet’s house and inhale in the light of the yellow dining room with the Japanese woodblocks, taking just a glimpse of the tranquil, blue kitchen through the open door.

“Monet is dead, but he’s left something behind, you know.” Grantaire murmurs as he chews on his shitty tomato chicken rigatoni almost an hour later, in some bistro in Vernon.

“I know, right?” Marius nods fervently, his mouth full of fries. “All those beautiful paintings…”

Grantaire thinks about it, trying to shake the aching need for a beer out of his pulsating head. “Not really,” he murmurs eventually. “ _David_ left beautiful paintings. A Marat and a Napoleon, and a feeling of deceived _naïveté_. But Monet, now _he_ left an illusion. He’s not, I don’t know, Da Vinci, or Phidias, he’s not a distant legend. He’s the guy who lived at Giverny, and ate, I don’t know, macaroni and chicken in his little Smurf kitchen. He wants us to believe that, the guy who painted all those bridges and lilies, he was real.”

Marius raises his eyes from his food, confusion engraved on his face. “But _wasn’t_ he?”

Grantaire lifts his glass and stares at it. It’s just water, and it’s painfully transparent. “I don’t know.”

“I’m so sorry, R,” Marius shrugs his shoulders. “I’m no artist, I can’t understand all those poetic things you guys say. All I know is the law.”

“Don’t let Cosette’s cop dad hear you say that.”

“Yeah, he thinks I’m a lost cause,” Marius chuckles nervously.

Grantaire lifts an eyebrow. “Well you _might_ be a bit of that too, but you can also say that in thirteen languages, can’t you?”

The younger man’s face lights up with a timid smile. They finish their meal in silence, at their table in the little cobblestone street, watching people walk by. The sun is hot and cathartic on Grantaire’s face, even the sweat feels so, while he melts in his hoodie. “Was it like that for you?”

“Was what like?”

“Did it happen immediately, when you first met Enjolras,” Marius batters his thick eyelashes with honest, roused interest, and Grantaire feels a quiet pang against the cage of his chest, “did you get all weak in the knees, your head in a whirl, light as if you’re walking on air?”

“Are you…” Grantaire gasps, “are you quoting _Thumper_ to me?”

Marius looks relatively confused as he shakes his head. “What? No –”

“No.” Grantaire chuckles hoarsely, taking a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. “Of course you aren’t, you are Bambi after all. Smoke?” he offers.

Marius shakes his head. “I don’t…”

“Of course you don’t.” He shakes his head even more firmly, lighting the cigarette and brings it to his lips with shaky fingers, dragging in a deep inhale of smoke until his lungs burn. He wonders why he hasn’t smoked in so long.

He’s choking. He’s choking on smoke, and then he’s choking in tear gas, and in tears, blocking up his throat and blurring his vision.

Marius anxiously turns to look at him. “Hey, you okay?”

Grantaire chuckles hollowly, before throwing an arm around Marius’ shoulders. Marius feels stiff, uncertain, and then he relaxes in his embrace. “I love you, Bambi,” he breathes.

Marius awkwardly pats his back. “I love you too.”

*

The first thing that hits Courfeyrac when he enters the bookshop of Rue des Pyrenées is the rich, powerful scent of all the flowers in the entrance, yet at that moment, the mixture of colors and fragnances makes his stomach twist uncomfortably. He finds Jehan sitting on a desk in the corner of the room with his back turned, lost in piles of ancient, herbology books, scribbling something in his notebook. He’s wearing a thin, white shirt and a pair of uneven cutoffs. His Converse with the ladybugs are thrown somewhere across the room, his bare feet tangled around the leg of his chair. He looks like that painting of Jan Ekels the Younger, Writer Trimming His Pen. Courfeyrac wouldn’t dare to disturb the divine tranquility of the scene, his throat feels too tight to speak anyway. He lets himself escape for a second or two, lost amidst the pile of books, their intoxicating scent and the distant whispers of dryads, the fires of dragons that breathe their decadence, trapped inside the dusty, yellowish pages.

It can’t last forever. It never did. Jehan turns around and Courfeyrac is scared. The first thought that crosses his mind is that he can’t possibly be eating enough. Jehan is a shadow of his old self, cheeks hollow and eyes sunk. He hasn’t been sleeping properly. Courfeyrac wants to wrap himself around him and pull him close, bury his face in his hair and breathe the gardenia, drown him in kisses and assure him that it’s going to be fine, everything is going to be fine. Instead he stands awkwardly in the middle of the room, his eyes falling onto the desk where the notebook lies.

“What are you doing?” he hears himself asking.

Jehan seems puzzled at first, tired and disoriented. Realization downs him as he turns to look at his desk and understands what Courfeyrac is referring to.

“I’m,” he gestures wearily with his hand, “copying. Some days it’s the best I can do.” He lets his shoulders fall, obviously feeling pathetic.

“What are you copying?” Courfeyrac smiles faintly, realizing how much he’d missed talking to him.

“Uh, Chenier,” Jehan attempts to return the smile. “La nymphe l’apercoit.”

“And?” Courfeyrac asks with a pang of pain at the reminiscence of Jehan’s poetry against his lips. “Does it help? The copying thing?”

Jehan shrugs his shoulders heartlessly. “Not really, no.” There is a palpable silence. “How’s your arm?”

Courfeyrac glances at his cast and grimaces. “I can’t wash my hair on my own. It’s a bit tragic.” He finally raises his eyes, briefly wondering whether he should pretend he’s there for a book on Moliere, knowing no one will believe it, and heaves a sigh, taking a step forward, painfully struggling to hold himself from touching Jehan, from kissing him and soaking his shirt with stupid tears that are prickling on the corners of his eyes. “I try to see you at home all the time, but I never get to. You never let me in” He knows he sounds desperate, but there’s no use in hiding anymore. “Please, Jehan ,” he begs. “Just let me in!”

“I can’t,” Jehan’s voice is already broken as he turns around, and tries to put a couple of travel guides into a neat pile, but his hands are shaking. “You’re not made for this.” Courfeyrac opens his mouth to protest but Jehan shakes his head. “No Courf, please,” he murmurs in a frail voice, not quite able to convince himself. “We’re so bad for each other. I don’t want to trap you…”

“But I’m already trapped, Jehan, can’t you see I’m trapped in my own shit?”

“I’ll suffocate you with love…”

“What if that’s what I want…”

“You don’t want this! Trust me, you don’t even know… You’re meant to be _free_ , Courf… free as a bird!”

“This is bullshit Jehan, you’re not setting me free, I won’t be free without you!”

“We’re not going to save each other,” Jehan says in a final tone. Courfeyrac had almost forgotten how deep his voice could get, how hoarse and imposing. His features are pulled, angular and sharp. His voice breaks. It tugs painfully on Courfeyrac’s heart. He feels his body limp, his mind numb, suddenly he’s way too tired to try anymore. He wonders whether he’ll collapse right on spot. Courfeyrac takes a book out of his messenger bag instead, with his good hand. An old, crimson tome, fraying around the edges, with faded golden letters on the hardback. He leaves it on Jehan’s desk and nods briefly, trying to swallow the tears which are burning on the skin of his face.

“I love you…” Jehan sobs helplessly as Courfeyrac walks away.

“That doesn’t make it any better.” The bell jingles and the bookshop door slums shut behind the dark haired man.

Jehan feels paralyzed all over. His eyes fall on the little crimson book Courfeyrac forgot on his desk. He takes it in his hand and opens it on the page with the pink neon Post-It. It’s written in English. His heart catches on his throat as he reads on, again and again, until his eyes are blurry.

_Forlorn! the very word is like a bell_   
_To toll me back from thee to my sole self!_   
_Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well_   
_As she is famed to do, deceiving elf._   
_Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades_   
_Past the near meadows, over the still stream,_   
_Up the hill-side; and now ‘tis buried deep_   
_In the next valley-glades:_   
_Was it a vision, or a waking dream?_   
_Fled is that music: ---do I wake or sleep?_

_Peut-être que je n’ai compris rien. Ton anglais etait toujours meilleur que le mien._

He crumples the Post-It between his fingers, and bursts into tears.

*

“Has any of you talked with Jehan lately?”

“Well, considering that we live in the same flat, I haven’t talked to him anywhere near enough,” Éponine grimaces. “I really worry about him, y’know?”

“Courf’s been like shit too,” Cosette sighs, concern shadowing her eyes.

“What about Grantaire?” Musichetta frowns, not taking her glance away from her work. “You should see him when he’s here in the café. He goes out and smokes all day, staring at nowhere, leather jacket and all, pretending he’s Albert Camus in a photoshoot, or, I don’t know, in some 90s depressing music video.”

“We should form a stratagem to convert our problematic friends into normal people again, you know, who know what happiness means?”

“So this is really a girl’s day out, isn’t it?” Éponine smirks sarcastically. “Gossiping about our friends, and all…”

“What do you think boys  _do_  when they go out anyway?” Cosette snorts dismissively.

“I don’t know about the others,” huffs Musichetta, “but _my_ boys have to be the biggest gossips in the entire universe.”

“When they go out drinking with Grantaire they’re just…” Éponine cringes. “Let’s say Courfeyrac is a harmless flying cherub compared to the three of them.”

“You probably forgot about that day he slept over with Marius at our place,” Cosette raises a perfectly shaped eyebrow. “My bra, Ponine! I found Napoleon running around chasing his tail, in _my bra_!”

“In all honesty, I don’t know how you survive with all that fluff,” Musichetta croons as she shifts behind the counter, preparing an order since the only place for the three of them to hang out when Musichetta has a full morning shift, is Cosette’s dad’s café. “Marius and a dog… man, I don’t know, it’s cuter than fucking _Groot_!”

“You don’t get to talk,” Cosette giggles, softly punching Musichetta’s shoulder as she walks behind the counter to give her a hand. “You practically _live_ with Joly and a cat, I don’t know what can get any more tooth-rotting than that!”

“Joly, _Bossuet_ , and a cat?” Éponine supplies helpfully.

“Joly who insists on us keeping the cat while being asthmatic _and_ obliged to clean all the scratches on Bossuet’s arms,” Musichetta corrects.

Éponine makes a pained grimace. “I told you we should do a LOTR marathon instead,” she huffs, close to desperation. “This whole disturbing praising the boyfriend thing in which I can’t participate, it disgusts me, really.”

“Why, but we can just as easily praise Combeferre, can’t we?”

“What’s even the point in this?” Éponine snorts sarcastically, particularly eager to disguise the flush spreading on her face. “He’s no one’s boyfriend, as far as I can recall.”

“He’s pretty praisable though,” Cosette pretends to be examining her fingernails (mint with yellow polka dots). “ _Isn’t_ he, Ponine?”

"Yeah okay, now don't you dare go all Prouvaire, or, I don't know, all Bragi about this and write a ballad or some shit, because I might go all Loki on you!"

"What?" Cosette arches an eyebrow. "Hot and mischievous?"

Éponine shrugs her shoulders. "Uh, I was mostly going for deadly, going through Hel and stuff, but I guess this works too."

Just at the right moment, Musichetta appears again behind the counter with their sublime pumpkin lattes, pushing the steamy, ceramic mugs forth and finally letting herself rest in between the customers’ orders, a heavy sigh and a pair of elbows on the shiny wood.

“Please, tell me you’re not taking pictures of your latte!” she moans at a wide-grinning Cosette, straightening her phone over the little cinnamon syrup design on the surface of her mug.

“Well, I _do_ have a fashion blog,” the blond girl with the orange fringe (today) croons, and Éponine snorts.

After a merely exhausting night shift, not even a truck of caffeine works for her, so she sips her own drink down with a single breath, burning her tongue and enjoying every second of it. “You are a goddess among women, Chetta,” she hums with true, almost orgasmic ecstasy, over the steamy fragrance coming from her mug. “You’re like, our Sophia from Orange is the New Black.”

A bright smile lights Musichetta’s beautiful face. “You know comparing me to Laverne Cox is the hugest compliment you could give me, right?” she asks as she turns around and starts wiping glasses with a dish towel.

Éponine shrugs her shoulders. “She’s awesome, you’re awesome. Now, don’t take that too seriously and think you’re _too_ awesome.” She sneaks a raisin cookie off a plate which is destined for customers who have actually paid for it, and lazily chews on it. “Have you ever thought…” she asks thoughtfully. “Who would you want to be if you were a different gender?”

“I’d want to be Julie Andrews,” Cosette muses dreamily, not even giving it a chance of a second thought.

“Wow, she’s female, you’re female,” Éponine mutters dryly.

“No shit, Sherlock!” Cosette gasps, bringing a hand to her heart. “There’s just no one else in the world I’d rather be since Papa first showed me The Sound of Music when I was six, or something. I’d just learnt how to write and I’d written her a letter inviting her to come stay with us at Montreuil, but on a weekend, because it would be rude to leave her home alone with my plushies when I’d be at school on week days.” She laughs. “Julie Andrews is my Queen, and King, and all Gods above.”

Éponine finds it impossible to swallow her smile down, even though a story such as this would have made her roll her eyes until they’d fall on the back of her head under different circumstances. “I guess I’d just be Tom Hiddleston,” she shrugs her shoulders, “you know, just to be able to jerk myself off.”

A serious silence falls, where they all sip their beverages and fall into a sacred, mutual agreement. Finally, Cosette leans over the counter.

“Who would _you_ want to be?” she raises her eyes from the tea kettle ring she had been fiddling with on her fingers, “if you were a different gender?”

“Well,” Musichetta slowly places the glasses back on the counter, thinking for a while. “I’d probably want to be… uh – Musichetta?”

“O- _kay_ – ” Éponine frowns slightly.

“I’d want to be me,” Musichetta shrugs her shoulders. “Only, maybe, a guy.”

“Is that a Ginny Weasley syndrome I see there?” Cosette teases, not unkindly. “You know, internalized misogyny against the stereotypes of femininity that were imposed upon you in childhood?”

“No,” Musichetta shakes her head decidedly. “No, it’s just misogyny, period. And definitely not mine.”

“What do you mean?”

“I think I’d just like to be me,” Musichetta returns to her work, putting some glasses on the shelf, and turning the espresso machine on. “Without having to clutch on my keys more than I clutch on life itself when I return home, who wouldn’t be met with condescending faces when telling people I want to actually do scientific _research_ and not teaching, to know my wage will be equal to Joly’s, or Bossuet’s when I finish college, you know?”

Éponine and Cosette exchange an overcast look of quiet, almost grave understanding. They don’t need to talk any more about this, all three of them know what the others have experienced, more or less the same, with few variations. It’s a flashing article on Cosette’s blog, informing her how to get the perfect bikini body all the guys will drool over, it’s everyone’s disbelief that Éponine is strong enough as a girl, to leave everything behind and build a future worthy of her efforts, completely on her own, it's a cat call that makes Musichetta feel like a piece of meat and, worst of all and beyond any attempt of comparison that would lessen its gravity, it's the racial discrimination two of the three had to deal with through a life that didn't start off full of privileges for Cosette, but became so in the future. They don’t talk about this cause they have before, and they’re doomed to never stop talking, about a world that wasn’t constructed by their rules but will have to learn to obey them.

They visit their favorite record shop when Musichetta’s shift ends, a circular tiny basement, hidden at Bdoulevard St. Michel, where Grantaire used to work about a year ago. Endless lines of cardboard boxes full with precious records in frayed cases, a nostalgic scent lingering in the air, and an old, wooden jukebox in the corner. Cosette sneaks behind them and takes pictures as they browse through stashes of Blind Melon and Baroque and the occasional death metal mix Musichetta will put in the jukebox and jam around in her long, psychedelic colorful skirts.

Éponine throws her eyes on the ceiling. “At the next picture I’m slaying everything you love!” she roars. “You’re getting worse than Courfeyrac!” 

“I love your faces,” Cosette groans as Musichetta flashes an affectionate smile at the both of them. “Is it that bad?”

“That’s called stalking, baby,” Éponine frowns teasingly. “I can see Pontmercy has been brushing off on you. Now, feel me at life’s _real_ problems. Look at all the records I want to buy and don’t have the money to!”

“I can buy them for you!” Cosette’s rosy face lights up and Éponine wants to smother her with affection. She playfully punches her arm instead, snorting through her nose.

“Yeah, we know you’re rich, little lark!”

“Oh shut up!” Cosette groans as Musichetta attacks them both from behind, wrapping her arms around their waists and pulling them close to smack two kisses on their cheeks. The vender eyes them strangely, probably because they’re kissing and because they’re girls, but none of them seems to care. Through their lives they had hardly allowed themselves the pleasure of doing things other girls did, sharing them with people so different from them who would still enjoy everything they did, just to be together. 

Up until then, none of them had hung out with nearly enough girls of their age. As Éponine is suffocating in tones of makeup she insists she never needed in first bloody place, and then rips her lungs out screaming in the raddest PlayStation multiplayer she has ever taken part into, with heavenly chocolate cake and cold beer, she finds herself slowly, but steadily realizing what she had been missing.


	18. This home is home and all that I need

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Enjolras?” Combeferre’s cautious, tired voice makes the blood freeze on his veins, the cold sweat stretch upon his skin and make his limbs go numb.  
> “Yes, Combeferre?” he asks hoarsely clutching around his phone so tightly that his knuckles go white and his head buzzes with sleepiness.  
> “You’ve got to come.” He can hear the dull thud of his heartbeat echoing through the room before Combeferre speaks, slow and measured, as every word comes out dead. “Grantaire is in the hospital.”
> 
>  
> 
> _Or the one where Courfeyrac visits his mothers, Enjolras has a coffee with Combeferre, and the drama begins._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OR THE CHAPTER OF FRICKING PLAGIARISM  
> I mean you can call this chapter a songfic, I really hope that what I’m doing, this patchwork of a gazillion songs is not illegal in fic. The whole thing is entirely shaped or, on occasions, influenced by, the songs mentioned in the End Chapter Notes.  
> It might seem really cheap when you read it, but the scenes just came in my head together with so many songs, and my keyboard just exploded. I’m so sorry, I hope you won’t completely hate it, but even if you do, I'd like to hear your thoughts on it, and definitely some suggestions for improvement. I might make a playlist with all the songs that have inspired this fic, btw, when I finish writing it.  
> There are two OC's, they're Courfeyrac's two mums.  
> WARNINGS: panic attacks, alcohol abuse  
> I'm disappointed by the writing in the last couple of chapters on which I'm working right now. I'm still struggling with the end and I probably will be for quite a while. Uni has started and, while classes are extremely interesting, I'm absolutely knackered and relatively stressed. 9 hours/week French haven't even started yet. So...  
> Thank you for reading and for coping me all along, your (and my) struggle is soon coming to an end, but man did I love writing this story...  
> (Also I'm going to Paris in 10 days, I'm in all levels of screaming internally, and I hope I'll actually be able to correct everything I've bulshitted my way through in this Paris fic afterwards).  
> Opinions and constructive criticism are always more than welcome.

He’s always loved trains, the lulling, rhythmical vibrations of his forehead against the foggy window pane as the rusted wagon streaks upon the rails, and the elusive trees, fields and small villages as they pass by and escape through his eyes, an enchanting pandemonium of colors, greens and blues and oranges, touching the horizon further than his eyes can reach. There’s no past or future in the certainty and the steadiness of a bumpy train, only his swirling thoughts and a relieving clarity as the sun appears behind the heavy clouds and blinds him through the heavy, crimson curtains that are fraying around the edges. His life is wrapped up in today, and there’s no coming home, because he’s missing a lie, and he can’t let it go. He’s been chasing a lie, and he still dreams of it, because the truth is hollow and he doesn’t need it, no, he needs the promise of a better place.

He’s dizzy when he walks out in the platform, choking on sun. There’s a peculiar feeling of excitement that prickles beneath his skin, the backs of his eyes humming things he’s never done, or things he did in a couple of lives ago, in a magical garden with flowers and a swing, with tender songs and stories of a different world, ghosts, hiding beneath the grass and dragons flying among the rooftops.

He sees them rushing out of the front door when the taxi turns around the corner and stops outside the fence of his childhood home. They’re beautiful, and his heart is trying to drum its way out of his chest.

_“Which mum is Sophia?”_

She has let her dark, short hair grow out. It’s sleek and braided neatly down her shoulder. She’s wearing wool all year round, despite the heat. It’s a thin dusty pink cardigan, reaching down to her ankles and wrapping around her sweats like a witch’s cape out of one of her tales.

“That’s a good look on you,” he cracks a smile, his voice catching on his throat as he leans into her arms and inhales the familiar _eau de Cloé_ off her smooth neck.

_“And what about your other mother?”_

Anne-Marie is glowing, Rocky jumping excitedly around her tattooed calves and barking welcomingly before he falls on Courfeyrac and almost throws him back, licking his face. She’s sporting a fiery red pixie cut and DIY cutoffs.

“You look ravishing,” he breathes as she pulls him for a smothering hug, and he clings on her with a desperation he hadn’t noticed inside him till then.

“Flattery isn't going to get you anywhere, _jou-jou,_ ” she hums into his hair, always sentimental, irrevocably spoiling him.

Sophia is staring at them, scratching behind Rocky’s ears, her smile always reserved, the glow in her eyes always radiant.

“Welcome home,” she says, and the lump in his throat dissolves.

“You’re so quiet,” Anne-Marie frowns as they take a seat in the bright yellow kitchen with the blue curtains and the artificial sunflowers all around. “Is our world coming to an end?”

“First of all,” Sophia asks firmly as she places the kettle on the stove. “What in Meryl Streep's name happened to your arm?”

“Uh – I fell...”

“If you say motorcycle you’re _so_ fucking dead, Monsieur de Courfeyrac,” Anne-Marie growls through thick, red lips, and Courfeyrac sighs.

“No, we’ve said that before okay? This was just a protest.”

“Thank goodness,” Sophia exhales.

Courfeyrac raises an eyebrow, absently playing with two gigantic golden retriever paws as Rocky stands up in two legs and places them on his lap, drooling over his electric blue chinos. “You know, if someone heard my two mothers thanking the divines that I got beat up in a protest, they’d find it a _teensy_ wee strange.”

Anne-Marie shrugs her shoulders. “As long as it isn’t a motorcycle.”

“You joined your first protest when you were three, I'm failing to spot what exactly seems strange to you,” Sophia states, matter-of-factly as she pours tea into his cup. He brings it to his lips, tasting the few drops of alcohol on the tip of his nose before the first sip goes down his throat. His mothers are worried about him and they don’t need to say a word about it.

“What smells so nice?” he attempts to smile in order to make their dark thoughts take flight, but it feels fake as it spreads upon his lips.

“I made cupcakes,” Anne Marie smiles back. Sophia doesn’t.

“When do you start with your classes?” she asks thoughtfully, carrying the disc with the cakes and the tea and following them outside under the pergola. Rocky follows suit, his tongue hanging from his mouth, his golden fur glowing in the burning sunlight. "Do you study enough?"

“It’s still summer, mum,” he groans, catching a ball from the grass and throwing it away. The three of them remain silent as they watch Rocky jumping and running across the garden to fetch the chewed ball, his huge, chocolate eyes happy and devoted, melting something in Courfeyrac’s chest.

“Now, tell us what is going on,” she sighs, taking a seat on a white, metallic chair, and leaning forward on the table, as Anne Marie walks toward him to hand him a red velvet cupcake.

He takes a sweet bite which feels like home. He lingers in faint, Technicolor memories for a while, sitting with bent knees on the grass and stroking the dog’s fur.

“It’s that Marius, isn’t it?” Anne Marie asks anxiously, folding and unfolding her hands.

“What?” Courfeyrac grimaces absurdly when he realizes what is going on. “No, mama, that’s not…”

“Oh dear, it isn’t Combeferre, is it?”

“Marie!”

“How should I know!” she protests. “With all those guys… he has a life, unlike _you_ his age!”

“Mama, these are my _friends_!”

“It’s the poet…”

Anne Marie’s face glows with realization. “Oh yes, the typewriter boy!”

“Can we please drop this…”

“No, we sure as hell cannot.” It’s Sophia who speaks firmly this time. “Not if I'm to see you like that.”

“Mum, there’s nothing wrong with me…”

“Is so, and we’re gonna fix it.”

“We can’t fix _everything…_ ”

“Yes-we-CAN,” Sophia firmly pursues her lips. “We can fix _this._ The boy is in love with you...”

Courfeyrac’s chest tightens violently. “Is he," he murmurs bitterly.

“Your whole approach of the issue makes no sense, you know?” Anne Marie folds her hands on the table. “People your age know nothing of love anymore, you’re so fucking conservative…”

“And dramatic…”

“Oh, so _unnecessarily_ dramatic!”

“Thanks a lot, guys, that's all very kind of you, but this is _not_ my point, alright?” Courfeyrac snaps, covering his mother’s voice. “Just… stop. This is not all about it.” Silence falls, interrupted only by Rocky, running around with his jingling bell, wagging his tail and demanding their attention. He realizes he’s left breathless, heaving painfully at the horrifying necessity to say it out loud. “I fought with Enjolras.”

“You did _what!_ ”

“Listen, it’s not my fault, okay?”

“Jou-jou do I see a bit of a mess?”

“He’s got feelings,” Courfeyrac gasps in exasperation.

“For you?” Sophia almost chokes on her cake.

“No, for Grantaire. Enjolras is in love.”

Anne Marie releases something between laughter and a snort, and immediately raises an apologetic hand behind her cup. “I’m sorry, just… Enjolras in love! It’s too much!”

Courfeyrac shrugs his shoulders as Sophia glares at her wife. “It's what people say.”

Sophia remains unimpressed. “You can’t run away from your problems when they get _too much,_ love, you know that?”

“I’m not _running away..._ I’ve just missed you...”

Sophia's face softens a bit. “Of course you did,” she mutters, wrapping her woollen robe around her hips before joining him on the grass, taking Rocky’s head on her lap to pet him. “But something tells me you’ve missed your home more.”

“ _This_ is my home.”

“Yeah, that’s all very touching,” Sophia's eyebrows climb to a blank expression .

“You know this will always be your home, _mon p’tit chou…_ ”

“But there is something you’re leaving behind.” His mothers look at each other. “ _Isn't_ it?”

Anne Marie’s hand is on his shoulder, squeezing him gently. “You’ve got to talk to him.”

Courfeyrac grunts, staring at his hands. “Well yeah, Enjolras, an unsuccessful protest, and sexual frustration are _such_ a good cocktail. He’s not exactly in a mood for _par-lay_. Right now he probably wants to kill puppies.” He immediately turns to the oblivious golden retriever with a horrified expression. “I was just kidding, Rocky, Enjolras would _never_ kill puppies, I mean, Marius is a real-life survivor.”

“You can’t run away from them. You need to deal with this. Don’t let them walk away. Not your Flower Boy.”

“You make Jehan sound like a hippie, mama,” groans Courfeyrac, hiding his face in his palm but already feeling a lot better.

“You all are hippies,” Anne Marie waves a dismissive hand, “you just don’t know it yet.”

There’s a thumb under his chin, forcing him to look up. Sophia is staring at him with that penetrating green gaze of hers. “It’s a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door,” she whispers.

“I’m not afraid not knowing where I might be swept off to,” he hears himself repeating the same mantra from when he was a little child, trying to hold back a smile as he gently wraps his fingers round her wrist.

He spends the day sheltered behind the door that didn’t let the monsters in when he was little. When he sleeps in his childhood room, his dreams take him back to Paris.

*

He remembers when he first met them. Combeferre’s tiny hand, then seeming huge to his childish eyes, wrapping around his own and helping him on his feet from the playground where the kindergarten bullies had kicked him and called him a girl. Courfeyrac’s bright, chubby smile as he explained that it’s not a bad thing, being a girl: his mommies are both girls and girls are strong.

A five year old Courfeyrac first gave him a kiss on the cheek, showering him with the affection he’d been deprived by his parents. Combeferre taught him how to read before his mother did, and Courfeyrac taught him how to ride a bike before his father even bought him one. They would guard the crying kids on the playground and always fight the bullies. After a few years they would start talking back at unfair, or ignorant teachers, and get detention together.

As he sits in the corner of his bed, staring at the opposite wall, his chest heavy and hollow, he can almost see them, in dirty dungarees and itchy sailor suits, running around in Combeferre’s garden and making up stories, climbing up on trees and teaching squirrels about right and wrong, building forts with rocks and announce they’d change the world. Courfeyrac’s parents would tell them they would achieve nothing with violence. Combeferre’s parents would tell them it would be difficult to change the world. His own parents told them they’d grow up one day.

They’ve grown up, and they’re still building forts.

They’ve been holding onto each other tightly, making every step together, swearing they’d always be there, swearing they knew the future. Everything goes away, everything did but Combeferre’s strong hand and Courfeyrac’s radiant smile.

He remembers their first fight. Courfeyrac had always been passionate, easily riled up. Combeferre had been rigid, difficult to be played with. He’d caught the two of them trying drugs in some party, just after Enjolras had run away from home and sought shelter at Courfeyrac’s. It was their rebellious phase, the one that left a seventeen year old Enjolras with several piercing – including on both his nipples – and streaks of red on his half shaven hair, lots of eyeliner and red leather, and Courfeyrac’s Vespa of ambivolous safety. That was more or less what the first night they ended up in a police department involved. Combeferre was extremely disappointed at them, mostly for hiding from him and for letting themselves get caught. He stuck with them till the end, only Courfeyrac couldn’t talk about his Vespa and the drugs, his mothers would kill him, so said only half the truth. Enjolras never understood what it was like to care so much for your parents’ opinion. He’d never had such a relationship with his own, so he ended up proudly confessing everything and getting all the blame on himself. He’d never seen Courfeyrac more angry with his position. He lit a cigarette in the middle of the police department and kicked it with his boot, he called him a dick until he got punched, and their parents had to come and bail them out. It was horrible and they swore they’d never fight again.

Everything is sultry in his head, spinning violently, causing him incredible pain that pierces against his ribs, so he pulls his knees close to his body and wraps his arms around them to feel warmer, to feel less alone, but he can’t.

He remembers how warm that night was. The night of his ninth birthday, on the 6th of June, when they dug a hole into the ground and lied inside of it, watching the stars on the sky as Combeferre explained everything he knew about them. Courfeyrac had brought him a birthday present: a little kitten. His mother immediately gave it away.

_Enjolras needs to dig a hole in the ground again, to curl inside and be warm, and never, ever be alone._

They swore they would be there till they were nothing but bones in the ground, and they were there. He was there when they grew restless, when Courfeyrac opened the door and left in the dead of night, leaving them shivering in the middle of summer.

The tumult of his heartbeat echoes painful in his ear. They said they would kill for each other once. The room is spiraling around, causing his head to buzz, a smothering pressure just behind his temple. He gasps for air, grasping onto the bed, knowing what’s coming and being unable to do anything to stop it.

_He’s dug a hole and he’s buried beneath the soil. The ground is getting into his nostrils, beneath his eyelashes. He can feel it under his tongue._

Enjolras can’t breathe.

He doesn’t know for how long he just sits there trying, remembering the breathing patterns he’s got to follow and the necessity to stand on his feet, until there are strong hands pulling him up. “Come on,” the voice is warm and mellow, “you can’t let this happen now, okay? You’re so strong, and we’ll do it together.”

He clings onto Combeferre, burying his face in his shirt, a soothing hand coming to rub soothing circles on his back. He follows his friend’s breath, taking greedy, shaky inhales of air until his head feels light.

“See?” Combeferre gently pulls him away. “You did this on your own. I knew you would do it!”

“Where is he?” Enjolras croaks, without raising his eyes.

“In Nantes, with his parents. He’s getting his cast off there and coming back in the morning. Now,” Combeferre smiles faintly, placing his hands on Enjolras’ shoulders to steady him. “Are we picking him up from the train station?”

“Of course,” Enjolras mutters before his lips curve upwards in a relief that lightens the weight in his chest. “I am magnanimous,” he teases.

"Magnanimous." Combeferre’s eyebrows fly to the sky. “Admit it, you just wanted to say the word.”

Enjolras can’t help but laugh breathlessly. “Can we go out for a coffee, please?” he murmurs in what comes out like desperation to his ears. “If you have nothing else to do, I mean…”

Combeferre looks slightly agitated, if not a bit disoriented. Enjolras wasn’t one for mundane pleasures such as a coffee without the reason to discuss something political or meet with allies, and Combeferre had been used to not ask him out. “I’m not meeting Ép till five, so yes, I think we can…”

Enjolras’s face lights up with a smile.

They walk by the Seine and it’s quite relaxing, leaning over the edge and flowing together with those waters, the molecules of which might have changed through the centuries but, in reality, they always speak the same ideas and drown them down with the same consistency. Tourists sit beneath the burning summer sun, having picnics and playing guitars, and it almost feels surreal. These people with whom Enjolras wants to share it all, they just come to visit, yet he has never left this town.

They stop by every second-hand book dealer on the left bank of the Seine, both acting like children underneath the Christmas tree. Consumeristic tendencies don’t count when it’s about books, that has always been their rule, so they buy a dusty tome or two, and Combeferre expands to rule to old, fraying world maps and entomology charts with beautiful butterflies that Enjolras is sure are going to end up on the wall above the TV, much to Courfeyrac’s aesthetical horror.

They sit at a pavement café in the Marais and order the cheapest coffees there are, but with extra cream and chocolate, because nothing is more satisfactory than peering through books you’ve just bought, except doing it with excessive amounts of chocolate. Combeferre finishes his own and sets his spoon down, the same ritual that always signals the beginning of the conversation, licking the cream moustache around his lips with pleasure instead of wiping it clean with a napkin. “Do it,” he smiles behind his spectacles. “Talk to me.”

Enjolras takes a deep breath and shuts his eyes tightly, before opening them again to be blinded by light. These rare occasions when it happens, are the only ones when he’ll burst with confessions and get it all out of him. “He does weed. I mean, he does it regularly, and I don’t know what’s going on with his drinking. He’s in some deep shit, Ferre, and I don’t know how to deal with this. I mean… I can’t help him if he doesn’t want to help himself, but he hates himself and – and he hates me,” he heaves, his chest almost collapsing in his curled figure.

“First of all,” Combeferre raises his hands, always attempting to put the things in some sane order. “He needs to understand how you really care. He doesn’t hate you, Enjolras. He _needs_ you.”

Enjolras’ face feels too warm. “He doesn’t. You have _no idea_ how fucked up he is.”

“Allow me to believe that I have _some_ idea,” Combeferre smiles bitterly. “I know that you mean the best, but you’re prejudiced, and you shouldn’t be. Don’t do to people what people did to the wooden airplanes before WWI, even though they were just as efficient and safe as the metallic ones, just because metal is part of the whole revolutionary, industrial context…”

Enjolras stares blankly. “You know you’re odd, right?”

Combeferre tries to hide a timid smile. “Anyway, the point is, before condemning people, let them speak. Open up, and speak back. Let them know about the way you feel about them.” He squeezes his wrist over the table, making him look up. “Yes, Enjolras, _feelings_. You’ve got a shitload of them, you know, and there’s nothing wrong with that. Use them to fix things.” He lets a sigh. “You owe someone an apology. Both of them. Take another brick off of the Bastille with your hands, tear it down and fix this.” Enjolras isn’t going to ruin it for him, not when he looks so proud of this.

Combeferre meets Eponine at Montmartre, and Enjolras goes back on his own. He leans against the doorframe, taking a deep breath of seemingly clean air, warm and refreshing, before gathering the strength to pull against the door and peer inside. He thinks of Courfeyrac, of entering through the door of that building together, carrying cardboard boxes. Something tugs in his chest, but then he immediately shakes his head. He can do this, he doesn’t mind being blamed.

He walks at the elevator, his pulse beating against his meninges as if he’s expecting something. They fall face to face when he opens the door, Grantaire getting out of his apartment in a t-shirt and grey sweatpants. Enjolras’ breath hitches on his throat. He doesn’t have time to assess Grantaire’s appearance. They stand there, staring at each other for a fraction of a second that feels like slow motion, like the first time they met in the doorway.

All of his life he didn’t know where the other man had been, those glowing, pale eyes, the holes in them he could not mend. He can feel it all replayed through him, through every fiber of his being. Courfeyrac packing his things and slamming the door behind him, Grantaire leaving him in the apartment, his glance cold and empty of all reverence, words spiteful and full of disdain that would burn through Enjolras until the sun would go cold.

_And I heard you say, right when you left that day, does everything go away?_

Yeah, everything pretty much does.

Enjolras steps aside and Grantaire passes next to him without a word, getting into the elevator while Enjolras unlocks the door of his apartment with shaky hands. He retreats into his room and curls against the wall.

The cement is muted.

*

Maybe he’s being delusional.

He’s home alone yet he can hear the clinking of glasses, he can hear the mellow litany of the saxophone from the stage, it’s fickle and full of smoke yet he isn’t in the bar, he’s at home and his hands are too shaky to find the right record, or to play with his abandoned, dusty guitar with the ribbon of grin wrapped around of it, a jealous brand of his failure. He puts an ancient mixtape to play instead, chuckling hollowly as he drinks straight from the foggy bottle, letting the poison pour into his veins after all this time, a broken lover, cold and sweaty, tugging on the frozen fucking sun, trying not to bite his neck while he gets his ears burnt with a magic voice, and his paper wings with three cigarettes to smoke his tears away.

He’s relapsed, but he doesn’t really care anymore. It’s a soliloquy of alcohol, and he’s raising his glass to the friends he’s killing, the ghosts that won’t matter cause he’ll hide in sin, to the God that won’t spare him a look, the God that shaped him with a scar, and he doesn’t even care

_that he’s dying_

He’s drawing in breaths but there is no air, only alcohol and he’s drowning, he’s turning to ice, an icy fire burning like fever inside his hollow chest and dissolving into cold sweat that prickles beneath his skin as he fades into darkness.

_I lied, I should have kissed you_

_when we were running in the rain._

He moves forward, he must. It’s just another slammed door, another dead wall that doesn’t let the gentle piano chords of some other childhood be heard.

_What am I, darling? The boy you can fear? Or your biggest mistake?_

The room is spiralling around Grantaire, dancing a sick waltz in the last dizzy, distorted notes coming from his mother’s old tape recorder. It’s a dark lament full of pain and remorse, as deceased hearts twirl around him in their best attire.

_Oh darling, he’s got years to wait._

Until he runs out of them

*

Even in his sleep, it’s almost as if they’ve made their agreements about when to meet, and it’s always in a doorway. The cold evening aches in between his nightmares, as it leaves in its wake all the memories that are left by the day, their short little lives on the path that they’re about to tread, on a cloudless sky, floating up above their heads.

His mind is burning with wisdom enticing the naivety of his youth and he’s growing up, shielding his eyes from the terrifying rarity of a truth that takes him back, to everything that’s passed as he sees what he becomes, through sky blue eyes that aren’t his own.

_He’s haunting him._

Enjolras is woken up by the rhythmical buzzing of his phone. He blindly reaches for it next to his pillow, his bleary eyes slowly getting used to the darkness of his room. He sees Combeferre’s name on the screen and answers dazedly, wondering if it’s already time to pick Courfeyrac from the train station.

“Hey, sorry, I was sleeping,” he mutters groggily, sitting up on his bed. “’s everything okay?”

“Enjolras?” Combeferre’s cautious, tired voice makes the blood freeze on his veins, the cold sweat stretch upon his skin and make his limbs go numb.

“Yes, Combeferre?” he asks hoarsely clutching around his phone so tightly that his knuckles go white and his head buzzes with sleepiness.

“You’ve got to come.” He can hear the dull thud of his heartbeat echoing through the room before Combeferre speaks, slow and measured as every word comes out dead. “Grantaire is in the hospital.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs that inspired this chapter:  
> Welcome home, Ghost Towns, Always Gold – Radical Face  
> Vampire Smile – Kyla la Grange  
> Haunt – Bastille  
> Cheers darlin’ – Damien Rice  
> Dead hearts – Stars


	19. I took you by the hand and we stood tall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **[Courfeyrac, 16:38]** WE R OUT OF LIME SLICES  & RASPBERRY PURÉE 4 OUR NON ALCOHOLIC COCKTAILS
> 
>  **[Courfeyrac, 16:38]** IF CONVENIENT PLS ASSIST!!!!
> 
>  **[Courfeyrac, 16:39]** IF INCONVENIENT GET UP UR BORING SKINNY ASS  & ASSIST ANYWAY!!!!!!!!!111!!
> 
> It's summer, and Enjolras is losing it.
> 
> Also, he's diagnosed with love.
> 
> _Or the one with all the Disney, the cocktails, the realizations, and the moments that are bound to change things._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're almost done, can you feel it? Only one more chapter, which is going to have badly written smut (obviously) and which I'll finish after I return because SHITSHITSHIT tomorrow morning I'm flying to Paris, a trip I've been saving up for something more than a year and here I am. God, I'm not going to say much. I mean, if you've read this fic you know what this means to me and I'm going absolutely crazy. Aaahh... I'll miss you but man I can't believe it...  
> I'm working on my Sound of Music fic so don't worry, I haven't forgotten about that. There is also another fic on which I'll start working on when I return, after I manage to catch up with the shitload of uni work I'll have left behind.  
> The pretend-to-be-yawning thing Enjolras does IS NOT my own, I saw it on Tumblr and instantly fell in love with it, but can't find the original post, so if you've reblogged it (or written it, bless you), please send me the link so that I can credit it here.  
> Please, as in all the other chapters, excuse my bullshitting my way through places I've never been to, or have been once, but I'm going there this week and I'll correct everything omg.  
> I've done my research on alcohol abuse/withdrawal but I haven't had the experience before, neither do I know someone who has, so please do share your ideas and tell me about whatever I've done wrong/disrespectfully so that I can change it.  
> It honestly means more than the whole world to me that you've actually kept up with this story. You are so wonderful and you've made this world a better place for me <3 Thank you so much, and I hope you'll enjoy this chapter!  
> Title is from Mumford and Sons' After the storm.  
> Obvious references from I will follow you into the dark.  
> Opinions and constructive criticism are always more than welcome.

Anne Marie is up for dealing with her biggest fear when her son takes the car and drives all the way to Paris into the night with an arm that’s still healing.

After Jehan calls him, making the world stay still, it takes a while for him to decipher what he’s saying through his tears. He drives through the night with his heart on his throat as rain pours softly on the glowing road and shines upon the windows. Other cars streak past and, as the wipers move over the windscreen, it feels as if summer has frozen over.

Courfeyrac has always hated hospitals, the nauseating scent of iodine and sterile. When he made a doctor’s appointment in Nantes only a few hours ago, to take off his cast, he wouldn’t have dared to believe that he would be running in some white corridor with his pulse thrumming savagely in his body because Grantaire would have been admitted with alcohol poisoning.

He finds them all packed at the end of the corridor, silent and pale, shut and drawn to themselves or clinging onto each other desperately. Joly is still in his scrubs, his shoulders slumped and his arms around a curled up Eponine, exhausted and with bloodshot eyes. All the light is drained from Musichetta’s face but she manages to stay calm, sitting next to Bahorel who looks completely disoriented, his features sunk into his face. As for Marius, he can’t stop walking up and down with his hands shoved into the pockets of his pyjama pants as Cosette tries to calm him down with sweet nothings, still in her nightrobe.

The first thing that Courfeyrac can think when Jehan jumps into his arms, is that he’s lost weight since the last time he held him. His auburn hair is oily and loose, his dark eyes red rimmed and hollow. Courfeyrac lets him soak his shirt with tears, holding him close enough for their heartbeats to meddle, savoring his comforting scent as he tugs on his arms and buries his face into his neck. He’s missed him, _God_ how he’s missed him, and he melts into the strong, bony arms that seem to never want to let him go.

Jehan is the one who found Grantaire and he’s shocked. He’s still in his pyjama pants, a summer sweater and mismatching flip-flops, disheveled and crying silently. “He was in a pool of vomit,” his voice is muffled against the fabric on Courfeyrac’s chest, his torso vibrating with recurring sobs. “He was ice cold, and – and he almost wasn’t breathing – I… I almost thought I’d lost him…”

“No flower, don’t say that…” Courfeyrac’s voice breaks, “he’s safe now, you’ve been so brave…”

“We’ve been such bad friends _fuck_ Courf – how could we let this happen…”

Courfeyrac runs his fingers through Jehan’s hair, somewhere on the back of his mind realizing how long it’s grown, running his fingers down his back, soothing him with tender, featherweight kisses... And then he sees Enjolras, and it’s almost like dying a little on the inside.

Nothing has ever felt so horrible as seeing his childhood friend like that, in such an uncharacteristic state, the man who never allowed his feelings to show, or to take over himself. It’s like staring at a ghost of who he once was, dark and pallid, sheltering himself in the cage of his arms and knees wrapped around his body. Enjolras isn’t crying, but he has been. His eyes are empty and cold, staring nowhere in particular and he’s silent, so painfully _numb_ and silent, almost paralyzed. Courfeyrac wants to wrap his arms around him, stroke his hair and assure him everything is going to be alright, in a desperate attempt to assure himself, but he can’t. Enjolras’ eyes won’t meet his own, won’t rest on anything but a morbid vision that’s obviously taking place inside his brilliant head, something no one will try to intrude into, or tame in any way.

It’s Combeferre who stands up and hugs Courfeyrac, his grip strong and reserved, yet sufficiently comforting. “He’s on breathing support,” he explains hoarsely in his ear. “They’re administering him fluids now.”

“Do you think he’s going to be alright?” Courfeyrac croaks.

He feels Combeferre pull away silently and his heart sinks. “I think so,” he answers wryly.

He collapses on a plastic seat next to Enjolras, who doesn’t even seem to notice. There is a heavy lump, blocking Courfeyrac’s throat and making his eyes tingle. He can hear Enjolras’ breathing slowly through his nose, his chest rising and falls heavily. He knows everything about the look in his eyes, about the tension in his fists, veins peeking as he’s gripping on the edge of his seat with white knuckles. He’s trying to control himself, he’s trying to regain his composure, but he looks as he’s either going to explode or pass out. Courfeyrac feels wretched as he hesitantly brushes Enjolras’ wrist with his fingertips, then wraps his hand around his own more surely, holding him possibly against his will, until his dry skin feels warm and alive beneath his own. Enjolras heaves out something between a choke and a sigh next to him, and next thing he knows, he’s curled into his arms, all the tension melting from his body and dissolving into soft, redeeming sobs. Courfeyrac can hardly hold his own anymore, and he wraps himself around his friend, running his knuckles up and down his back and hearing him confess everything through nothing but barely audible whimpers.

Jehan curls up on Courfeyrac’s lap. Bossuet and Feuilly return a few minutes later, silent and weary, bearing snacks and shitty coffee the rest of them accept half-heartedly, waiting in an electrified silence for news they almost dread to hear. It’s terrifying, the guilt, burning through them and making them turn to each other in a desperate attempt to turn away from themselves. They were all tied up to their own shit and didn’t pay enough attention, didn’t give Grantaire what he needed, didn’t notice it earlier. The silence is palpable and it’s vibrating. Jehan isn’t crying anymore but he’s paper white and all bones in Courfeyrac’s arms. Enjolras isn’t speaking or moving at all, possibly even asleep with his face buried in his palms. Turns out he isn’t. He’s the first one to jump up when a doctor appears, after what feels like a torturous eternity, and talks in hushed tones with Joly.

“He’s fine,” their friend’s relieved whisper when the doctor leaves bursts like wildfire between them. It’s a pandemonium, an absurdly quiet one at that, heaved sighs and bodies falling heavy in plastic chairs, heads thrown back in a quiet, almost mystical contracts with the ceiling, or what’s below and above.

“Can we see him?” Eponine speaks for the first time in what feels like forever, and it’s raspy, almost breathless.

Joly looks around cautiously. “Yes,” he eventually turns to look at them conspiratorially. “But, for now, it would better be just one of us."

They all exchange meaningful glances. A thin thread of thought is woven between them. They are all dying to be near Grantaire, yet in the end all eyes fall upon Enjolras in a proud, mutual agreement.

“I can’t…” he breathes faintly.

“Enjolras,” Combeferre places a hand on his shoulder. “Go…”

He looks at them guiltily for one last time, but he’s only met with encouraging, faithful eyes. Courfeyrac’s hand clasps with Jehan’s, and Enjolras enters the room.

*

He’s there all night, waiting devoutly for a sign, a flicker of his eyelids, a twitch of his fingers. From his uncomfortable seat he watches him, pale and motionless as he lies in his bed, a shock of damp, black hair spread over the pillow, looking so small under the covers, so frail and pure, without his usual protective layer of sarcasm and bitterness floating above him. He’s real on this hospital bed, it’s him, and it’s never felt more wrong. Enjolras is there with every drop of liquid that pours into his veins with the IV, with every beeping sound of the machines that seem to be sucking the air from the room, with the rhythm of his own pulse adapting and uniting to a heart that’s captured him forever, to the sound of Grantaire’s unsteady breathing. He’s there and he’s sleepless, his eyes vigilantly looking after him, hollow and unreal on his sore face, his clammy palms folding and unfolding on his lap, his knuckles occasionally brushing a sweaty lock off of Grantaire’s temple, or hesitantly stroking his fingers over the covers. And when Grantaire wakes up, Enjolras is there.

It shouldn’t be him, he knows that well enough. It’s completely unfair to the others and he can’t even bear to think about it because remorse is cold and it’s sending shivers up across his spine. He thinks of Feuilly’s concern that no one took seriously all these days, of Eponine’s tears and Bahorel’s guilt. He wonders how Joly must be feeling, after spending all these hours dealing with doctors and nurses, having to deal with a friend in his workplace, how shocked Jehan must have been when he found Grantaire _– and what would have happened if he hadn’t found him…_

There are nightmares of the worst kind, those he only sees when he’s awake. His hands go numb and he can’t feel anymore, his insides are burning with hellfire; the dull humming of the machines is killing him slowly, twice, eight times, the liquid pouring through the IV is blood that once stained their chests, only to freeze in the body that was once warm and lively and all for him, and all that Enjolras can wish for in those despicable moments of darkness, is for Grantaire to let him follow.

Amidst his delirium, Enjolras shuts his eyes, maybe because he’s tired, or just because he’s ready, because it’s almost blissful, the lighting isn’t blinding anymore, just Grantaire’s eyes behind Enjolras’ shut eyelids, and the hint of a spark.

But Grantaire wakes up, after all, and he does so clasping on Enjolras’ hand.  

It’s a strange thing, quite beyond comprehension. A feeling that they fit, not like ridiculous song lyrics describe gaps between fingers and all that shit, no. It’s like the first time Grantaire wrapped his fingers around his own, steadying him and keeping him to place, breathing inside him mantras and runes of some forgotten universe they used to walk upon as equals, fractions of his existence that felt stolen from him before he even consisted an idea, centuries of colliding and completing, a mingle of heaven and hell, satisfied with the meeting of their hands, a few lifetimes of wandering souls, ready to embark when darkness lifted them both up, hand in hand.

Enjolras is almost drifting into a slumber, his fingers brushing faintly against Grantaire’s knuckles, when he feels him tugging on his hand. Next thing he knows, his eyelids are fluttering open after what seems like considerable effort, and a great deal of reluctance. They’re surreal, blue and somewhat distant, and Enjolras doesn’t know if he’s dreaming, not anymore.

“Grantaire –”

“Did a barricade fall, or something?” is the first thing that he croaks, and Enjolras wonders whether he aches because he sort of _hates_ Grantaire so fucking much.

Enjolras narrows his eyes dangerously, and opens his mouth to reply, completely astounded. Grantaire has quite some nerve – that much he should have known by now.

“Relax, I’m kidding,” he groans softly, shutting his eyes briefly and, after different circumstances, Enjolras would feel _swell_ because pain probably serves Grantaire just fine. “Am I dead?”

“Let me guess, is it because I look like a fucking angel in heaven?” Enjolras snarls.

“No, God you’re so smug,” Grantaire tuts weakly, bringing an IV-free hand to rub against his eyes. “Because I actually _feel_ dead? Ish?”

“Well I _thought_ you dead!” he hisses furiously, taking his hand away with a harsh movement. Grantaire looks hurt, tired, and he retreats, and Enjolras almost regrets it.

“Did you mourn?” he breathes silently, making Enjolras’ insides do a weird thing.

“I can’t _believe_ you!” he gasps, but it’s almost tender as he runs his thumb down an unshaven cheekbone. “You don’t – you don’t even _care_ what I’d do if anything happened to you, and… and you’re quoting the fucking _Avengers_ to me!”

Grantaire gives a small shrug of his shoulders. His eyelids slide shut and he lies upon his pillow, trying to tame his heavy breathing as if he’s in pain.

“Does it hurt?” Enjolras asks with a softened voice, sitting rather awkwardly back on his chair.

“I don’t know,” Grantaire breathes exhaustedly. “Does it?”

Their hands touch again. “Just – go back to sleep, okay?”

“What about you?”

Enjolras raises his eyebrow at the irony of the situation. “Don’t worry about me, I’ll sleep on the chair.”

Grantaire opens his eyes and turns to him, giving him a faint, crooked smile, that makes his heart flutter in that so familiar way. “C’mere,” he murmurs sleepily, curling on the corner of his bed. Enjolras’ pulse is pounding tumultuously through his body as he eventually exhales, carefully climbing on the bed and wrapping his arms around Grantaire.

“You can go, you know,” Grantaire breathes sleepily upon his skin.

“Not an option.” Their foreheads come to rest together. “I’m with you… till the end of the line.”

He can feel a smile tugging on his lips, faintly realizing that, for once, he’s had the last word. Even if that is a MCU reference competition –

_and there’s no word he’s willin to take back._

He holds him safely in his arms, lulled by the sound of his unsteady breathing, tangled up between the sheets in a black hospital room, shadows swirling their way through the window. In the morning, they know they’ve got to make it.

*

Feuilly can’t remember the last time their flat had been so full, and so absurdly empty of alcohol at the same time. But then again, he doesn’t remember having another recovering alcoholic best friend in the past, and throwing a non-alcoholic party for his return. With Bahorel preparing all the food, that is.

Feuilly guesses there’s a first time for everything.

They put up a fight for choosing the movie they’re going to watch – refusing to mourn any longer for the casualties induced by the actual _are we going to watch a damn movie or should I shove my karaoke mic_ and _the Twister mat up your skinny indecisive ass_ conversation. Inevitably it’s all about the Breakfast Club VHS, inspired by Jehan and Bahorel’s full-on grunge attire of the night (which is especially interesting considering they’ve exchanged clothes and Jehan is about to sink in Bahorel’s flannel which can serve the lot of them as a camping tent while Bahorel is squeezed in a pair of skinny high waisted Levi’s and creepers that make him approximately 2,127 meters high, not to mention that their makeup and hair was done by Bossuet, which says quite a lot). Besides, everyone loves that movie, for various, quite predictable reasons (though Eponine getting off on pointing out unnecessary romances and makeovers apart from Enjolras getting off on revolutionary students beating up their conceited professors’ ass is quite a new addition to their knowledge.

No one’s willing to have any alcohol even when Grantaire half-heartedly insists, and really, there aren’t enough reasons to go back at their promise, not when a fruit trunk explodes into the kitchen and Joly returns into the living room, juggling glasses with delicious smoothies in his hands, or when Marius catches Eponine and Combeferre snogging over the popping corn by the stove, giggling ferociously as they eventually serve the ready, disgusting chocolate variety only Grantaire and Combeferre like. On second thoughts, after _that,_ maybe Courfeyrac does need the alcohol, but he knows better than disobeying Bahorel’s glares, which are certainly less preferable than his proud mama watching after her wooing ducklings mode.

They’re building a barricade of the fluffy kind during the opening credits, singing along Don’t You Forget About Me and doing dramatic dance moves (the Squidward is winning so far) and jumping around, throwing each other pillows and fighting for the place of the one sitting closer to the kitchen. Jehan, Cosette and Courfeyrac are the first ones to form a dog pile, and soon everyone else actually bumps over them until Joly, somewhere in the middle, squeaks he’s being smothered by Marius’ thigh. Enjolras rolls his eyes and leaves them all to go and make actual, _edible,_ classic flavored popcorn, which only includes, for this variety, to microwave the packet, but apparently he rushes into the living room in the middle of the song, all flushed and sweaty, to declare that, uh, the kitchen kind of exploded, again? So Grantaire throws himself up and declares he’s got this.

He helps him clean up in silence, and then slowly demonstrates how to actually _unwrap_ the popcorn before placing it into the microwave, while Enjolras turns all different shades of red and nods without actually hearing a word.

They both rest against the kitchen counter, waiting for the microwave to beep. They almost refuse to stare at each other, until Enjolras hesitantly raises his eyes. “So,” he murmurs, “how are you?”

“Dandy,” Grantaire arches his eyebrows. “Is that supposed to be a tricky question?”

“I just…” Enjolras nervously fidgets with a pack of M&Ms in his hands. “I heard you decided to go into detox, is all.”

The smiles that appears on Grantaire’s face is faint yet unexpectedly steady. “It had to happen at some point, I guess,” he turns to the microwave, avoiding Enjolras’ gaze. “For Jehan’s sake and, y’know, Eponine’s.”

Enjolras finds himself opening the tap for no apparent reason other than the fact that the sound of the pouring water helps him fill the silence for a second or two. “Not for you?” he presses, his own voice coming out quite demanding. “It has to be for you.”

“It’s for me,” Grantaire replies softly, not turning around to face him. There is silence for a while, and then the microwave beeps. “For you too. I’m sorry – for everything I’ve caused you…”

Enjolras opens his mouth to protest because this isn’t supposed to work that way, _for you_ isn’t a good enough reason and he _needs_ to hear more than that, trying to ignore the thrumming sensation of his heartbeat against the cage of his chest.

Just then, they hear the ending notes of the song, owl hoots and voices calling them back to the living room.

They all fall upon Grantaire and cuddle him down into the pillows while he giggles and kicks and tries to escape, but he stands no chance. They unironically recite the ‘When you grow up, your heart dies’ dialogue and Jehan almost reduces a couple of them to tears after they decide to snort and overdramatize it.

After 10 Things I hate About You, the 90s marathon turns to the inevitable Disney marathon. They drool over Mulan and sing along the Colors of the Wind, and then there is the Hunchback of Notre Dame. They all cringe and exchange wary looks at the possibility-gone-probability of Enjolras ranting endlessly about social constructs of 15th century Paris, but they watch in awe as he sings along Esmeralda’s God Help the Outcasts, a quite heartbreaking rendition with a slightly ameliorated, if not a bit too bass singing voice.

When the time comes for the Lion King they’ve lost all their defenses and they end up in a sniffling, sobbing mess even before Mufasa’s death, throwing plushies and Twix wrappings on the screen every time Scar appears. When it happens, Combeferre has to take off his glasses and wipe them on his sweater because they’re too foggy to see, Joly insists he’s caught a horrible summer cold that makes him teary eyed, and Marius, Jehan and Cosette simply need assistance breathing. Thankfully Hakuna Matata comes soon enough for Bossuet and Feuilly's duet, and the scene lights up, even though Bahorel won’t stop blowing his nose in Jehan’s flowery handkerchief.

It is when Nala makes her reappearance as an Actual Hottie, Enjolras’ fingers finds those of Grantaire’s, and they end up holding hands on the pillows, by the dim light of the TV in the dark room while no one pretends they notice. They’ve formed a habit, one they don’t need to talk about. It’s just something they can’t live without, and they willingly lean into the warmth this simple, harmless contact fills them with.

Courfeyrac sees. Of course, everyone does, but it’s Courfeyrac who flails his arms in the air along with Timon and shouts “I can see what’s happening, and they don’t have a clue!” Unlike Pumba, Combeferre uses violent measures to prevent this, and covers his friend’s mouth with his hand, producing a majestic “mngnnh!” but eventually he releases him- “…and here’s the bottom line,” a deep breath “our trio’s down to two!” There are snickers and awkward glances among the cuddle pile, and can you feel the love tonight begins.

It might not be filled with 'ze sweet caress of twilight', running carelessly amongst crystal waterfalls, lavished in celestial light, but there's still something magically thrilling about that scene, with the radiant colors of the TV bathing the dark living room, the soft breeze coming from the open balcony door and, of course, Bahorel and Bossuet's jungle chorus noises.

It's that upheaval in their chest, swelling with color and song as if they're watching the film for the first time, two toddlers gaping in speechless awe. Their hands have grown sweaty from the pressure against each other, and they don't dare meet their gazes. Only Grantaire throws Enjolras timid, sneaky glances, mesmerized by the first human being he meets who's more beautiful than Nala, but eventually decides to not phrase it, since he can definitely come up with somewhat more appropriate compliments. But just then, Enjolras chooses to yawn majestically, pulling his hand away to stretch and, for a blissful moment there, it almost seems as if he's going to awkwardly throw his arm around Grantaire, but he ends up hitting him in the eye instead, and blushing apologetically for the rest of the night.

When the last movie of the night ends no one pays any attention to Feuilly's half-hearted suggestion to help clean their aparment after their filthy mess. Bahorel tries to lift him in the air, Rafiki-style, and ends up violently tackled down the pillow fort, sighing dreamily with the rest of their friends.

Enjolras and Grantaire are lying somewhere on Bossuet's chest and Jehan's hip respectively, with Musichetta's legs propped up over their stomachs, and they eventually turn to smile at each other shyly, the blushing teenage reminiscence of wht they once were, until Courfeyrac 'mistakenly' throws coconut milk on Grantaire's shirt. And, you know, as usually, things happen. Because it's them, and it's a tale as old as time.

*

The fiery sunrays lazily waltzing on the sky are bewitching Paris into a heavy, humid slumber. Everything feels a bit shaken and dizzy, slightly out of place, as if through eyes that have lingered on the sun for a little longer. The Louvre stands majestic in the burning light, in the Right Bank of the Seine, the Musée that never sleeps, ever since it was a Palais, in incessant flow from Gotthic fortress to the Cour Napoléon with the glass pyramid (that stirred more wars than Napoléon himself), embracing every shade of the impeccable genius of the human mind and heart. Place de la Concorde is incredibly busy at this time of the day, even though the allegorical figures of tritons and naiads on the two sumptuous _Fontaines_ would much rather be sleeping in the depth of the rivers and the tranquil seas, dreaming that they will soon again be free by the mortals that invade in the waters, the same who admire the pyramid of the Louvre instead of their eternal deity. And in between, the jardins des Tuileries are bursting with life, in the middle of the summer funfair that brings candyfloss-induced, barbe à papa full toothy smiles in the faces of the children that play to the muffled reminiscence of some long forgotten valses on the big Ferris wheel and the carousels. Marius and Cosette are there too, sneaking behind the Puppet Theatre, sharing cooties on the swings, and wining each other stuffed animals at the chamboule-tout.

Paris is not made for summer, Enjolras decides for the twenty second time in his life. He is seriously considering migration in colder climates when Courfeyrac makes a passionate effort to argue, but a person in jelly flip flops and Hawaiian V-necks is not in the position to argue anyway, so Enjolras holds up a dismissive hand and sighs gravely. The only thing he can do with this heat in first place, is lie back on the couch and reenact the death of Marat. Most of his friends have already been away on a few days of budget holiday, but Enjolras found it essential to put his remaining free time in good use and get some work finished. However, he found it impossible to concentrate on anything but lowering the temperature of his slowly melting body, and control his anxiety and guilt – induced heavy breathing.

He doesn’t know whether he is relieved or distressed now that all of his friends are back in action. All he knows is that most of them are rigidly refusing to visit the artificial beaches in the center of the city, and that wouldn’t be a problem in itself, but the apparition of an inflatable pool and a barbeque grill on the rooftop are definitely bound to affect the normal process of things. More often than not he stumbles on one wet person or another dripping all over the way to the bathroom or the kitchen. They all make a considerable effort to get him to join them, he has to acknowledge that, but there’s no chance of him succumbing. (“Let’s celebrate our freedom while we can!” “We’re not free until the people are free!” “For fuck’s sake Enjolras it’s _summer!”_ “People martyred themselves in the summer, and I’m pretty sure they didn’t do it for our right to bathe with inflatable cows!” “Enjolras, what have we said about martyrdom!”)

Now Enjolras most definitely does not suffer from any modesty issues and, under different circumstances, he wouldn’t have found it at all infuriating to be sharing the building or worse, the apartment, with the entirety of his half-naked friends. The nature of the problem is entirely different and it has to do, one, with the BBQ grills that twist up his stomach and the inordinate amounts of Mika (what do you mean Courfeyrac is _predictable_?) and two, with Grantaire.

Because all the drama that might have happened between them and the whole complexity of his feelings, do under no circumstances diminish the severity of a situation which involves a shirtless Grantaire and the entirety of his piercings and tattoos, dark hair curling over his tanned chest and trailing down his soft tummy, vast colors and fierce lines wrapping around his biceps and twirling around his waist, and all that Enjolras can do is stare from a distance with his throat dry and his heart forgetting how to be a heart, trying hard to focus on keeping himself sufficiently hydrated and doing actual _useful_ stuff like, reading, or proofreading, or educating himself and other people instead of crying at chick flicks and banging his head on the wall of his room, running the immediate risk of being heard through it.

Enjolras can’t control this anymore because his feelings for Grantaire are burning inside him in a turmoil that’s consuming all his energy and nothing seems to make sense anymore, not Feuilly’s beekeeping classes or Courfeyrac’s latest articles about wage gaps. Not one conversation, not one important piece of information, nothing sinks in properly because nothing else matters and Enjolras can’t eat, Enjolras can’t sleep, Enjolras can’t make it through the night without squirming in his bed or biting on his lip to swallow his breath or, worst of all, grinding himself breathless into the mattress. Enjolras knows his pounding heartbeat can be heard through the wall and to the other room, and he couldn’t be more thankful that Grantaire spends most of the time on the rooftop, because Enjolras has butterflies in his stomach and Enjolras is swearing through gritted teeth.

Courfeyrac shakes his head gravely and Combeferre heaves the diagnosis with a sigh, and Enjolras is in love.

 **[Courfeyrac, 16:38]** WE R OUT OF LIME SLICES & RASPBERRY PURÉE 4 OUR NON ALCOHOLIC COCKTAILS

 **[Courfeyrac, 16:38]** IF CONVENIENT PLS ASSIST!!!!

 **[Courfeyrac, 16:39]** IF INCONVENIENT GET UP UR BORING SKINNY ASS & ASSIST ANYWAY!!!!!!!!!111!!

Now, the Venn diagram of the times when Courfeyrac decided to impose fun upon Enjolras, and the times when Enjolras actually enjoyed himself without the world falling apart are probably a perfect circle, but Enjolras loves Courfeyrac and it’s enough for him when Courfeyrac is happy – plus he believes in inherently good people and wants to prove their existence no matter what. It also doesn’t hurt that Grantaire is going to be up there with damp swimming trunks and a butt that won’t quit, so Enjolras stands up, a little lightheaded after all this time melting in a couch making eye contact with an electric fan and, after snorting under his breath at the realization that they actually _keep_ such pretentious shit in their own fridge, he drags himself upstairs, not bothering to give much thought to his pathetic appearance because, as Bahorel has been saying for the past week instead of lame things such as yolo or carpe diem, Hakuna Matata.

When he manages his way to the rooftop, juggling several bottles and plastic boxes in his hands, he’s hit face-straight with the Sun and all his rose-fingered Nymphs on his fast chariot and the brunch time and all those ridiculous mythological allusions that are usually beyond comprehension and Grantaire keeps shoving between normal words, and he has to rest against the wall for a while before he realizes what this world has come to because _Grantaire_.

It only hits him how sweaty and disgusting he must look, all dark circles and Swiss cheese-pale skin, in his ratty ancient Doctor Who boxers that he's stopped wearing ever since Moffat happened, and Combeferre’s oversized flip flops when he’s faced with no less than twelve half naked tanned, wet haired, attractive adults screaming and splashing water on each other in a colorful pandaesia of horrendous swimwear. Enjolras briefly wonders if this is a stratagem of Robespierre from the heavens to test his Spartan resistance to earthly pleasures and his devotions to their cause.

Everything feels surreal, like a scene from a Buñuel film. Bossuet is being chased by an invisible power around with a watermelon under his armpit. Combeferre is the picture of sophisticated grace soaked wet apart from his glasses, in a pair of robot swimming trunks, studiously enjoying some kind of bubbly pink drink with a crossword propped up his knees. An intimidated Marius carrying an inflatable cow is being chased by a mirror Ray Ban – Hawaiian cladded Courfeyrac who, apparently, thinks he is still beingfunny while shouting “Fetchez la vache!”A considerably tanned Jehan, clad in a hippie psychedelic caftan, a huge cowboy hat and shark teeth jewelry, is waxing poetic in his little notebook, until Cosette in a Diva 50s polka dot swimsuit attacks him. It results into a vicious water gun battle that declares the overall pacifist Jean Prouvaire, conqueror of the Seven Seas and All the Inflatable Mammals. Eponine, hidden behind and ginormous pair of sunglasses is having a smoke in the pool, totally grunge and not giving two shits about the mayhem around her, until Bahorel mistakenly throws a tennis ball on her head, so she slowly turns around, causing the neon Viking to gulp in horror. Musichetta, the supervisor extraordinaire, tackles Bossuet down to apply sunscreen on his bald head after Joly’s casual reminders about skin cancer and drowning in the inflatable pool after the consummation of uncountable sandwiches. Feuilly is already red as a lobster, Enjolras notes affectionately, all his freckles prominently dissolved. Everything seems quite refreshing.

And then there is Grantaire.

Enjolras holds his breath because Grantaire is standing right next to him, leaning lazily against the grey wall, so close that he can feel his hot breath brushing on his skin and this most definitely is unfortunate, because Grantaire smells of peach sunscreen and clean sweat and Enjolras thinks that this is pretty much how it must feel to get a sunstroke. It doesn’t really help that their thighs and shoulders brush, and Grantaire is soaked, hair already curling on the skin of his legs, his olive green trunks sticking on his hips, his tanned skin with _The movement you need is on your shoulder_ tattoo feels damp and cool when it comes in contact with Enjolras’ bicep and sends a wave of electricity down his spine. There is a drop of water, then another, dripping on Enjolras’ skin from Grantaire’s dark, curling hair and he swallows hard, trying to breathe into the realization that Grantaire isn’t drinking, Grantaire is smiling, and Grantaire looks _well._

“Summer is a good look on you too, my liege.” Even from Combeferre – _especially_ from Combeferre – it would have been nothing but mockery, considering Enjolras’ current visage, but from a man with such sarcasm history, it comes out surprisingly different. There’s something tender in his deep voice, reverent and soft, like the first words he ever breathed when they met at the doorway, in what feels like ages ago. Enjolras exhales slowly, feeling his muscles relax a bit, cheeks violently flushing from all the heat downing upon him and lips aching from the effort to hold back a goofy smile.

“You think so?” he asks quietly, and Grantaire turns to look at him, his eyes bluer than every sea wave they’ve been floating upon, in Enjolras’ most absurd, caffeine-intoxicated fantasies.

“As a matter of fact I do,” Grantaire murmurs. He takes a deep breath as Enjolras holds his own. Since they moved in that apartment and his life changed about 180o, he’s learnt to expect everything. For a fraction of a second there, his heart plummets wildly in his chest, and he’s seriously considering consulting Combeferre because if love is not a medical condition, then he doesn’t know what is.

“I should, uh –” he clears his throat, running a palm over his sweaty face. “I have this… thing.” He tries to waveand he fails at _waving,_ for fuck’s sake! “Uh, see you around!” Pathetic _. He is pathetic_.           

Grantaire rolls his eyes so hard that Enjolras fears they’ll fall off his face and it’s a pity because they’re such gorgeous eyes.

“What?” he almost snaps, feeling his pulse pick up again. _Can you for once fucking share with me what’s going on in that cynical, brilliant curly head of yours? Like, do we hate each other or what? No it’s perfectly okay like, go ahead, be ambiguous and seductive like fuck and leave me here melting like Combeferre’s sorbet…_  

“Nothing,” Grantaire eventually mutters, winking in a way that _really_ doesn’t help Enjolras tell if he hates him or not. “Don’t work yourself too hard, Apollo!”

“Don’t call me that!” growls Enjolras and oh _how he wants to shove him back against the wall and kiss that stupid smug face off his face…_

“I think I’ve heard this before,” Grantaire chuckles hoarsely, and he’s damn right. Everything is the same and nothing is, and Enjolras has never felt more fucked in his entire life.

*

“Anyway, here’s wonderwall,” announces Grantaire gravely, receiving all the slaps and groans of the world, ending up actually playing The Beatles’ Till There Was You.

“How do you think Enjolras would react if he was here?” Jehan hums contentedly, snuggled closely to Courfeyrac, both of them fitting inside one of the dark haired boy’s gigantic cardigans as the soft summer breeze of the night brushes against their cheeks and makes the hair stand up pleasantly on their napes and bare legs.

Courfeyrac wiggles his painted toes thoughtfully. “In order for Enjolras to have a reaction, he should recognize Grantaire’s feelings or even _his_ _own_ if they danced in front of him in nothing but the French flat.” He snorts, his eyes travelling over the lights of the city, the illuminated Eiffel Tower peeking behind the rooftops, with the occasional cat living the wild nightlife from building to building. “But to be able to do that, he’d first have to mutate back into a human again.”

“What are even our friends,” Jehan sighs, affection spreading into his chest, warm and fulfilling. He’s happy here, truly happy, and at moments such as these he can’t even dare to imagine his life bereft of everything he’s allowed into it, from a reason to wake up in the morning and try breathing even when the air would be too thick and the sky stuffed with clouds. Courfeyrac is holding him in his arms and Jehan knows that his life has never felt so entirely _right,_ all the words having taken their right place on the paper, yet nothing is obvious, nothing is boring, because with Courfeyrac life is not predictable. Life is a dream from which Jean Prouvaire never wants to wake up, ever, and he lingers into it with all the power that’s in his heart.

“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?” Courfeyrac murmurs into the crook of Jehan’s neck, his voice soft and deep, and it’s so adorable that Jehan thinks he’ll melt right on the spot and wet the whole cardigan with melted pretentious poet liquid material.

“Am I sticky and gross?” Jehan teases.

Courfeyrac gently elbows him on the ribs. “Thou art more lovely and more _temperate_ ,” he breathes with a small, seductive smile, capturing Jehan’s lower lip between his teeth in that same, rehearsed manner that takes Jehan’s breath away all the time, and leaves him shaky and faint in Courfeyrac’s arms. They kiss for a while, lazy and slow, lips merely teasing each other, fingers tangling in hair and pulling on fabric.

“Have I ever told you that you’re a sublime kisser?” he murmurs huskily against his lover’s mouth.

“I like that word,” Courfeyrac smiles widely upon his lips. “Bless.” He relocates Jehan on his lap, teasing sluggishly on the line of his jaw with his tongue. “You should ask Combeferre about that biting trick.”

“Why?” Jehan quirks an eyebrow, “does he appreciate it as much as I do?”

Courfeyrac shrugs his shoulders. “He taught me it.”

Jehan almost chokes on his own spit. He hardly ever expects the answer, that’s the magical part in being with Courfeyrac, apart from the intoxicating fragrance of daisies and fresh sea water, the softness in some of his hair and the passion in his words, and everything else that doesn’t quite make much sense because Jehan is in love, and it’s _beautiful._

_Then there was music and wonderful roses, they tell me in sweet fragrant meadows, of dawn and dew._

Courfeyrac is humming the song under his breath and Jehan’s heart does a wild dance in his chest. There’s no bonfire and marshmallows, but the strumming of Grantaire’s guitar flows gently, clear like the most cathartic water in Jehan’s veins, and the night sky feels so gloriously naked and unveiled tonight, that solely the laughter of his friends, the fried beans and burnt waffles that they have, right now feel even better than a night in an exotic beach.

Courfeyrac sighs blissfully as Grantaire’s incredibly talented fingers frolic over the chords, and Feuilly’s divine voice gives them goosebumps. Jehan is just about to bury his face closer in Courfeyrac’s collarbone and share the much treasured peace of the moment, when Courfeyrac pinches his sides teasingly, causing him to jump up and screech. “My sweet and precious flower, will you get me a waffle?”

Jehan snorts, as affectionately as a nostril-ripping snort can be affectionate. “Why don’t you get off your spectacular ass and bring yourself one?”

Courfeyrac scowls. “But you’re literally _closer_ to them!”

Jehan clicks his tongue, clearly enjoying the whole thing more than he should. “Don’t let Combeferre hear you misuse the word,” he wraps his arm closer around Courfeyrac’s waist, pulling him closer beneath the zipped tent-cardigan. “Also,” he gapes in shock, “you can’t expect me to wake a sleeping dragon!”

It is Courfeyrac’s turn to snort, and Jehan chuckles fondly at the idea that the couple of them are in their way to outdo Joly and Bossuet in becoming gossips extraordinaires. “Bahorel is _hardly_ a dragon. Mostly a sleeping pumpkin!”

“Uh huh,” Jehan croons teasingly, “ _someone_ can’t wait for Halloween!”

“What about Halloween?”

“Oh love, how you’ve repaid me, denied and _betrayed_ me!” Courfeyrac chants dramatically. “You won’t even fetch me a waffle while I made you _a braid_!”

It is true that there was a braiding train earlier that evening, hair all wavy and highlighted by the sun, long or short, all of it braided with wooden colorful beads, the doubtless highlights being Marius and Combeferre’s serious expressions with their short beaded spikes flying to all different directions. Jehan raises a disbelieving eyebrow. “Courf, darling, this is a _shit_ braid,” he says tenderly, waving his hair so that the uneven lump of tangled, highlighted hair swishes around his head.

Courfeyrac groans in defeat, yet still obviously unwilling to accept his fate as a waffle-less, talentless hair-braider. “Excuse your highness, but this is modern art! I’m pretty sure that if I’d done it like, eighty years ago in the Cabaret Voltaire, I would have become rich!”

“Yes, but you didn’t,” croons Jehan, receiving a nose boop with Courfeyrac’s chin, that nevertheless makes him blush and smile until his cheeks hurt.

_There was love all around, but I never heard it singing, no, I never heard it at all, till there was you_

The tranquillity that falls with the last lulling chords is tangible, and Grantaire, expectedly enough, switches to Smiths as their head turn to the sky in that universal instinctive deal of hopeless romantics all around the world. Jehan rests his head on Courfeyrac’s shoulder, who slightly tilts his head to place a kiss on his hair. His face is beautiful, a precious spark of starlight amidst the radiant flecks of light, under the violet, infinite sky.

“Has it ever occurred to you,” he murmurs slowly, almost like a curious child asking his parents questions about the universe, “that there are people who don’t actually live here?”

Courfeyrac almost chokes on his melon milkshake. “Please tell me that you intended this to sound less classist and racist than it came out!”

“No!” Jehan rushes to shake his auburn head and widen his doe eyes in horror. “No, I’m so sorry, it really did sound better in my head!” he stifles a shy chuckle, “come on, you know how I mean it… It’s horrible that I say that, and you know how I’d love and be proud to have been born and live anywhere else in the world – which I’m definitely intending to do, at some point – as I find most places surreally beautiful, yet… It’s just, sometimes I feel inordinately _privileged_ to live in such a highly dysfunctional, promiscuously pretentious, liberatingly stinky heaven as Paris, you know.”

“For mine own sake,” Courfeyrac gasps, stupefied. “You really are a poet, aren’t you!”

Jehan makes a squirming sound through his smile, burying his face in Courfeyrac’s soft woolen cardigan. Courfeyrac chuckles softly. “I thought you missed Provence, though.”

“Of course I miss it,” Jehan sighs softly, pulling his head away from Courfeyrac’s shoulder. “Don’t get me wrong, if there is heaven on Earth that’s probably Provence…” the mystifying, sinister glint on the angelic, Art Nouveau lithography façade of Jean Prouvaire to which only his friends have been used sparks in his eyes, “but you know, maybe I’m not destined for heaven...”

“You’re an angel,” Courfeyrac frowns stubbornly, his voice more passionate than the subject would demand. “No disguises, no excuses, you’re an evil gorgeous piece of angel shit because I say so!”

Jehan hums approvingly, “now, love, _that’s_ poetic!”

“Think of it though,” Courfeyrac continues absently, raising his bright green eyes to the sky. “We’re still all born under the same stars. Imagine the way this affects us, despite the place we live in.”

“Wow, that’s deep,” Jehan nods solemnly. “So what now, do we pretend we know half the shit that Combeferre does about stars, and constellations, and the like?”

“Of course we do!” Courfeyrac acts shocked, pulling a finger out of the cardigan to point at some unspecified streak of dark sky that hangs above their heads. “That isolated, grotesquely blind star, for example? This one alone forms one of the most well-known constellations among the scientific world.”

“Oh is that so? So if I go ask Combeferre…”

“He will undoubtedly confirm its name as the famous one and only Isolated and Overly Caffeinated Oblivious Apollo With a Stick Shoved Up His Ass Despite Which We All Still Love Him! You should ask Grantaire, his astronomy thesis is probably on it,” he chuckles softly, lolling his head back, letting Grantaire’s hoarse, bitter voice in as he sings The Boy With The Thorn In His Side.

“And that twinkling, uncertain, noble star over there,” Jehan smiles mischievously, “I’m pretty sure I read somewhere is named Baron Marius Pontmercy!”

“Aw,” coos Courfeyrac, “isn’t it adorable?”

“Excessively so, only a tad lost.”

“What about Grantaire? Do you see Grantaire?”

“I sure as hell do,” murmurs Jehan, his eyes narrowing in deep thought as he scans the stars which as still visible when they hear voices of awe behind them, and suddenly everyone’s looking at the breathtaking sight of a falling star, drawing a sharp, smudged line across the violet canvas, before dissolving behind the Eiffel tower.

“Is that Grantaire?” Courfeyrac whispers softly in Jehan’s ear, causing him to shudder faintly in his arms.

“Yes,” he breathes on Courfeyrac’s tanned, scented skin, “I think it is.”

“Make a wish then, _mon_ _pissenlit_?” Courfeyrac murmurs, leaning to press a kiss, featherweight as butterfly wings on the sensitive spot behind Jehan’s pierced and tattooed ear.”

“Why, but I already have,” Jehan breathes, as Courfeyrac leans closer and their lips brush together.

“Oh yeah?” Courfeyrac murmurs huskily, his breathing ragged and his eyelids already drooping in need as he presses the first, hot kiss on Jehan’s half-parted lips. “Care to share?”

Jehan smiles in dozed ecstasy, throwing himself back against the bricks as Courfeyrac wraps himself around him, legs hooked on his waist and strong fingers supporting his nape. Their chests are pressed together suffocatingly tight, their frantic heartbeats entwined in an abundance of guitar as the first rays of light start painting the sky in rosy watercolors, and their lips come together, breathing the pulse of the waking city through each other’s breath. Behind them their friends are wolf whistling and mock vomiting, Courfeyrac’s eyes are meadows and Jehan is slipping, and nothing has ever been more beautiful.

“I’ll just leave it to that,” he breathes against his lips, and the sun rises.

*

He’s lying on his bed with the back of his head resting upon the wall. The afternoon light that enters through the room, prefacing the exhale of summer, is obscenely bright, making things uncomfortably clear for his own good, as dust swirls in front of him captivatingly. There’s dust on his laptop, he notices, he must clean the screen. Everything is foggy and it glows, and Enjolras wonders if he needs to take a nap, because his head is too fuzzy to work. His own hands seem surreally pale in the blinding light, almost transparent, and he’s got to admit it’s quite disturbing. He pulls them in the shade, focusing on the folding and unfolding of his fingers, because everything else simply feels disorientating. Eventually he picks his phone from his bedside, fidgeting with the applications in order to actually do something instead of play with his hands. He checks the news once, twice, his frown growing deeper and deeper, before he realizes he can’t even do that.

He browses through his music app, only to find out it’s quite too empty. Only a few songs remain, some embarrassing highlights of his adolescence he still hasn’t gotten ridden off from his computer, a couple of ready-made Youtube classical music playlists for studying and, well, The Beatles.

His thumb hits play on the screen before he can actually focus on the song he’s selected. Maybe it’s just on Shuffle mode, he doesn’t know. It’s just, it’s Hey Jude, and his heart skips a beat when the first piano notes frolic on the light air of the room. The light is already more mellow as the sun sets, falling from a different, less blinding angle and making everything warmer.

He’s never been able to understand the effect this song has had on him because, being determined and motivated in most occasions of his life, he never really needed it. He always underestimated it, compared to other songs of the band, finding it too simple and not really saying anything. Now he can only think of the tattoo swirling around Grantaire’s arm, and he knows.

It’s motivation, the fiercest of kinds, spreading into his body like wildfire. It’s the powerful, consuming need for something he can’t quite identify, and the violent warmth of the feeling that he’s already acquired it, because he feels it so close it’s almost pounding in his chest.

When he hears a sound from the next room, he takes his head from the wall abruptly, almost as if he was attacked, and throws himself from the bed, his blood pumping in his veins.

_The movement you need is on your shoulder_

Next thing he knows, he’s outside his room and the apartment, knocking on the neighbours’ door with his head dizzy. It’s Jehan who greets him, all dressed up with skinny floral jeans autumn edition and a maroon sweater that Enjolras recognizes as Courfeyrac’s, his hair styled in that ridiculous medieval bowl cut he’s not going to get used to anytime soon. “Hey,” Jehan’s smile drops when he sees him. Enjolras supposes he makes quite a depressing sight, all nervous and flushed and sweaty. “You okay? You look as if you’ve got the morbs.”

“No…” Enjolras says slowly before retaining his composure, and firmly shaking his head. “Uh, no – I came to see Grantaire.”

Jehan seems uncertain for a while, playing with a thread on Courfeyrac’s sweater before raising his eyes. Enjolras doesn’t blame him. “I was just ready to go, I have a date with Courf,” he mutters, chewing on the corner of his lips. “Will you two be okay?”

Enjolras has already opened his mouth for an answer, but his heart jumps up in his chest when a dark haired man appears into the room.

“Yeah,” Grantaire answers behind Jehan’s shoulder. “I think we’ll be okay.”

Maenad peers outside and rubs herself against Enjolras’ calves. Their eyes lock, like the first time they met in that very door, and he holds his breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **This story is being put in hiatus until I go through it all and correct it, which, after having returned from Paris means, change any mistake that had to do with not actually having visited a place I was referring to, and also the way my headcanons have changed for the characters. I promise that this isn't going to take more than a week, and then I'll start working on the last chapter, but I'm letting you know just in case. Thank you so much for your understanding and for every other way you've shown me your immense support!**


	20. Home is wherever I'm with you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Autumn,” Grantaire murmurs bitterly, with just a spice of sarcasm. “Does it make you feel all fuzzy inside? Petting my obnoxious feline, and all that sappy shit?”
> 
> Enjolras lowers his mug to reveal a creamy smile. “Is that a trap question?”
> 
> “You’ve got…” Grantaire clears his throat uncomfortably, gesturing at his lips while obviously trying not to stare. “You’ve got foam on your mouth.”
> 
> _In which there are mornings, cats, fairy lights and sex._
> 
> _Or alternatively the one where Jehan and Courfeyrac are us, Aphrodite does her magic, and Paris repeats._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And heeeere comes the porn. I mean, isn’t the description promising? Exactly. Bad porn, no doubt. Not my area of expertise, you already know that. But at least I tried. Sorry for any way in which this might traumatize you. Also here’s the end, in case you didn’t notice, and I don’t really know how that makes me feel. I must confess, a little overwhelmed. Planning and writing a big story, and adding things and working for it for almost a year is much more meaningful and rewarding for me than writing a small one, (and much more than I had ever engaged with in the past), but it’s also nerve-wrecking, and kills all the inspired plot bunnies for other projects that might pop into your head, and it feels like getting out of hand at several points of the process, so you need to understand how fucking important your overall support has been to me this last year. Thank you so much for your understanding when I have written so little aside from this, thank you for your tolerance when I write shit, thank you for your beautiful, encouraging words and, most importantly, thank you for keeping up with this, those of you who did, especially when it’s a story full of unpopular ships. I mean, I know the Combeferre/Eponine era is long ago over, and most people see it as a pair the spares, but for me it isn’t, and it means a lot that you still read what I wrote. I also thank you for your tolerance in reading my bullshitting my way through Paris descriptions, and probably making it too much, but you need to know that, like my wonderful Cosette Starberry-Cupcake said, home is where it feels like home, not where you were born or where your family leaves, and every time I leave Paris I feel like being torn from home. I purposefully haven’t spoken to you about my trip because it just hurts, everything hurts since I left and I’m trying to convert myself in the routine again (which actually helps), before moving the fuck on. So inevitably, the next story I’m preparing will be another piece of mediocre cliché Paris porn, but at least the storyline will be cute, roommates and shit. SO yeah, thank you for everything and I hope you’ll get to have a much better Halloween than mine.

“Are we really doing this now?”

“As a matter of fact, we are,” Enjolras breathes, sitting down on the pile of obscene patchwork cushions with the occasional cigarette burn that serve as a couch. He takes a little pillow on his lap and twists it absently between his hands. Everything smells heavy, a combination of Éponine and Grantaire and Jehan, jasmine cigarettes and lemongrass and spicy candles, and it’s intoxicating enough to grip on it like life itself.

Silence falls. “I’m way too decaf for this,” Grantaire sighs gravely, pressing with his palms on his knees and standing up with effort. Enjolras’ eyes follow him, without sitting up from the pillow couch.

“Need help?”                                                      

“Am I, or am I not a professional fucking barista?” Grantaire rolls his eyes.

“You’re also a musician but you haven’t played to me in quite a while.”

“Yeah, well,” Grantaire shrugs his shoulders. “Just, wait here without trying to help or save people, or blow things up, just for a while, okay?”

“A double latte for me please.”

Grantaire’s eyebrow climbs high beneath his wild dark curls. “Yeah sure, princess.”

It is a latte, but it’s pumpkin flavored and, even though Enjolras is ready to protest because he always hated how pretentious everyone became when autumn was around the corner, he succumbs to the lure of an ice cream ball melting atop of his creamy coffee. It’s heavenly and he hums in bliss behind his mug, sitting cross legged on the pillows and sipping with Grantaire, in silence. Maenad comes to curl between them, demanding to be properly petted.

“Autumn,” Grantaire murmurs bitterly, with just a spice of sarcasm. “Does it make you feel all fuzzy inside? Petting my obnoxious feline, and all that sappy shit?”

Enjolras lowers his mug to reveal a creamy smile. “Is that a trap question?”

“You’ve got…” Grantaire clears his throat uncomfortably, gesturing at his lips while obviously trying not to stare. “You’ve got foam on your mouth.”

Enjolras says nothing. He simply leans over Maenad, letting his eyelids slide shut and waiting for him. Grantaire’s mouth meets him midway, his tongue wiping the cream away from Enjolras’ upper lip, lingering for a while, teasing him with his front teeth. “You taste sweet,” he murmurs. “I want what you have.”

“You can have it. Me,” Enjolras murmurs breathlessly against Grantaire’s lips. “All of me, you know.” It’s all wrong, so wrong for him, so wrong to offer anything that defines him as a possession, laying himself to wholly belong to somebody else.

 _His heart just won’t stay still_. “I’m yours.”

Grantaire shudders away, pale and dry. His mouth feels so, his eyes dark and his cheeks hollow. He takes his gaze away from him and lowers his head. Enjolras can hardly see him behind the long curtain of dark, tangled locks. “You’re good in this,” he gestures at the finished coffee, leaving it on the floor and kicking it away with his foot because Maenad jumps down and rushes to lick the remainders of the ice cream from the rim of the mug.

“Well,” Grantaire shrugs his shoulders wryly, causing his wild hair to swirl without raising his eyes. “I’ve gotta be good at something, don’t I?”

Enjolras’ chest tightens uncomfortably. “You’re good at many things, Grantaire.” His hand hesitantly reaches for Grantaire’s fingers, wrapping tightly around them. They’re stiff at first, in Enjolras’ grip, eventually relaxing and curling around his wrist. It’s a warmth compared to nothing he’s ever shared with anyone else. “Speaking of which...” he takes a deep breath. “I think it’s about time you showed me those secret sketches of yours.” When he receives no answer he gently shakes his hand. “R?” he asks in a soft voice.

He expects a sarcastic dismissal, a cackle or a quirky eyebrow, playing amongst the curls on the man’s forehead. He expects to be denied the privilege with a pathetic excuse or a blatant rejection, yet Grantaire stares at him with those breathtaking, oceanic eyes, before pulling his hand away and standing up, this time heading no further than the record shelves on the opposite wall, not to get a record, but a frayed, olive green sketchbook, hidden between them.

Maenad is curled on the TV, staring at them interestedly with her green, brilliant eyes, occasionally licking her paw. Enjolras waits patiently, almost reverently, as Grantaire returns to his seat and heaves a deep breath, shutting his eyes, before abruptly opening them, and turning the wrinkled, coffee stained pages until the middle of the book.

He wants to take it all in. It’s a magical thing, what’s happening, and it feels as if he’s waited for a lifetime, and more. He shuts his eyes before properly looking, bringing it close to his face, inhaling the dizzying scent of coffee and old paper. His fingertips tremble over the rough, recycled paper, caressing every line his beloved hand has crossed with a half sharpened pencil, feeling the watercolors wake up beneath his skin. It’s a ritual and nothing else, and he opens his eyes only when he feels invited. Grantaire is holding his breath and he wants to breathe it into him, but Enjolras is looking at the drawing and breathing feels trivial.

He’s staring into a mirror, or in Narcissus’ lake. He’s staring back at his reflection on the paper only that’s a God, and he’s worshipping him through Grantaire’s eyes. It’s in the style of an Art Nouveau lithography, golden curls reflecting light over the drawing, a banner of fire wrapped around his marble figure, hanging majestically from what seems like an altar, rising like an idea and exploding like the sun. There are poppies woven in his hair, pouring blood all over the frame, blooming from his chest like open wounds of a paper that doesn’t die, only sleeps a slumber of celestial peace. They’re poppies, and they’re bleeding like tears on Enjolras’ eyes.

It is the most beautiful thing Enjolras has ever set his eyes upon, and his tongue is deprived of words. He doesn’t say anything, he can’t. Speech is going to defile it so he doesn’t dare. Grantaire opens his mouth to say something, looking obviously ashamed, but Enjolras has already shut his mouth. It’s slow this time, and he feels Grantaire melt assuredly into it.

It lasts forever. Enjolras is holding him in his arms afterwards, caressing his hair. “You don’t have to do this, you know,” he feels his mutter against his neck. “You…” Grantaire’s voice is raspy. “You can stay away.”

“Not an option,” Enjolras replies hoarsely. “You can do this. I _believe_ you can –”

“You believe in everything, Apollo.”

“Everything you don’t want,” Enjolras says seriously. “When in fact there are things for you to fight.”

Grantaire shrugs his shoulders. “I revolt therefore I exist,” he mutters. “Therefore _we_ exist.”

Enjolras raises his eyebrows. “Camus?”

Grantaire smiles bitterly. “The cry of a betrayed innocence,” he sighs dramatically. “The Romantic dandy embraces Bad as his real faith, the revolutionary demands the death of the murderer while he’s against death penalty.” He stretches his arms behind his head. “We can reach some strange happiness, only through utmost despair.”

Enjolras lets a barely audible snort. “Highly overrated.”

“Oh, is that so?” Grantaire cracks a sarcastic smile.

“Do you know what else he said in that book, though?” Enjolras continues. “Through the dust of the stars, life will go on.”

“Withdrawal will be too hard but they say death is a bit harder, don't they?” Grantaire asks bitterly, focusing his gaze on his bitten fingernails, tangling and untangling his fingers together.

“Don’t say that,” Enjolras murmurs seriously. “I was scared shitless when you got sick,” he pushes him away, his voice breaking slightly. “I’m scared, all the time, when you try to keep me away,” he grabs his shoulders, forcing him to stare at him. “I can’t _afford_ being scared, Grantaire, that’s not what I do.”

“That’s… that’s what we do,” Grantaire corrects him, faintly shaking his head. “We argue, Apollo. We’re made for this. We just… won’t fit.” He swallows dryly, looking away. “That won’t change.”

“I love you,” Enjolras blurts out, quite aggressively as his heart stops and tries to burst his chest open, or something in between. Grantaire’s blue eyes cling upon him, wide open, brighter than all stars. “Do you think _that’ll_ change?”

Grantaire doesn’t dare to speak. His mind is a whirlwind, his chest a battlefield, and he’s falling in love all over again as he has been doing for what feels like fucking _centuries,_ the marble of the Galatea he’s carved breathing life into his dead, cold body.

“Are you real?” Grantaire’s voice fades into a whisper as they both stand up. Next thing he knows, music’s filling the room as the pickup scratches over the old record. He tries to dig into his memory. Was it one of his mother’s discs? He doesn’t know. It’s a violin and some brass instrument he can’t quite identify, and they’re floating in a dream.

The sun has already set and all they can see in the dark room is each other’s shade, standing awkwardly against the wall. Grantaire turns on Jehan’s fairy lights that hang above the pillow fort. From that angle of the room they can’t see the glow of the city through the window, hear the traffic and feel her pulse. They can only see the twilight sky, clear and pale, rosy soft clouds, bleeding over the blue sky, waltzing their way at some mellow infinity. Seconds pass and it turns lilac and dusty. Grantaire feels featherweight. There’s nothing but the electric fireflies fluttering on the wall, and the shape of their figures, dark, warm flesh against the purple dusk, and a harsh, aching breath shaped between his fingers.

They’re kissing hard, swallowing each breath off of each other’s lips, stumbling over things and causing Maenad to watch out and not show up for the rest of the evening.

It’s sloppy and desperate, lips sliding together, tongues nudging like chisels on marble, hitching breaths and exploring more than air wants to. They shift and roll against the cold wall. Enjolras’ shirt rises, exposing a streak of porcelain skin that flinches at the contact. He finds himself pinning Grantaire’s wrists back, tasting the sweet, clean sweat off the rough, unshaven skin of his cheeks, his jaw and the cord of his neck. Desire bolts inside him as Grantaire’s rough fingers wander beneath his shirt, sending jolts in his gut every time he touches a sensitive spot, so intimately that it’s sin.

They fight with their clothes, pulling shirts over their shoulders and struggling with buttons and zippers. Grantaire’s chest is already heaving and Enjolras can’t do this for long. He wraps his fingers around his wrists, Grantaire’s hands bending sharply in reflex, exposing the dark, satin skin. His fingers are between Enjolras’ luscious, red lips. His hands are moving all over the colorful tattoos on his biceps and back as if he’s some kind of sacred statue. Enjolras is _worshipping_ him, and he’s merely the sculptor.

“Oh. Sweet. _Odin…_ ”

Enjolras’ lips trace lower, licking an invisible line down his chest and to his navel. His tongue is burning over Grantaire’s body, wet and slick, following the dark trail of hair down his boxers, teasing the tattoo on his hipbones until he’s out of breath, and sinking beneath the waistband of his boxers before taking him out slowly, raising his glance to look at him, debauchedly lowering his mouth on Grantaire’s length and, hitching his breath, taking him all in.

He’s throbbing between Enjolras’ lips, pressure building up and flowing like lava. It’s warm and soft and _tight,_ his tongue weaving whispers of the sweetest hell down beneath his skin. “Holy fuck… Apollo –” he gasps, throwing his fingers into Enjolras’ tangled, golden curls, and tugging in need, throwing his head back against the wall, seeing stars. “Fuck – _your_ _mouth_!”

Enjolras’ arms wrap around Grantaire’s knees as he almost loses his balance, his legs liquid and his mind more intoxicated than any drink he ever downed other than Enjolras’ hands on skin, his tongue tracing the outline of his balls. He feels his guts tensing until he almost explodes, flames spreading from meninges that pound, down to his curling toes.

They manage to kick off the last pieces of clothing when they fall over the couch, a tangled mess of limbs, sweat, and riotous heartbeats meddling together. “Please…” Enjolras begs, but Grantaire hushes him with a kiss. “I want to see you,” he breathes in the crook of his neck, and eventually Enjolras relaxes and allows his body to be spread back, in full display for Grantaire’s caresses and attentions.

The hand that wraps around his cock is rough, callused, deft fingers that work for his release as Grantaire steadily picks up a pace. He leans forward, breathing fire on his pulse point, tasting and biting on spots that are going to be bruised tomorrow, kissing him devoutly on every hollow and every curve of his body. Grantaire’s hands trace the alabaster skin of his chest as his tongue teases and blows over a pierced nipple, causing Enjolras to gasp, arching his back up from the couch.

“Where… uh – have you been…” Enjolras’ eyes slide shut in anticipation, throwing his head back and exposing the swanlike curve of his neck, “all my _life_ …”

Grantaire is kissing constellations all over his chest, lowering his curly head and nuzzling it in the pool of Enjolras’ pulsating stomach. “Just over the wall,” a lusty, wicked smile spreads over Grantaire’s ecstatic face, “practically…”

“Shut up,” Enjolras gasps, not really seeming to know what he’s asking for as he throws his fingers in Grantaire’s hair and _pulls._ “ _Uh_ – I need you!”

“What do you need?” Grantaire asks in a raspy, breathless voice, his pupils dilated and his blue eyes clinging desperately on Enjolras’ every needy expression. “Fuck _say it_ , Apollo…”

“Fuck me…” Enjolras sighs, squirming beneath Grantaire’s touch, “For fuckssake, R, I need you to _fuck me!_ ”

Grantaire stays silent, his chest ready to explode in its fervent turmoil. “Anything you need…” he murmurs eventually, an impeccable warmth travelling inside him, aching desire pooling in the pit of his stomach. “On your knees,” he orders shakily and it’s more of a plea, stretching his body to find the lube and condoms in the backpocket of his discarded jeans.

Enjolras is ready for him, spread over and trembling and the couch, every twitch of his muscles begging for him. Grantaire squirts some lube on his palm and rubs his fingers together, trying to contain his ragged breathing to prevent himself from hyperventilating before even managing to take Enjolras. He rests his palm on the base of Enjolras spine. “Are you sure?” he hesitates, shuddering at the idea of ever defiling the marble that carved his heart all over and from the very beginning.

“Come on…” Enjolras muffles a groan against a pillow, as Grantaire teases his rim, opening him up before easing himself inside him. “Fuckfuck _fuck, Grantaire_!”

He works him open systematically, inserting a second finger when Enjolras tries to fuck himself against his knuckles. His free hand is tracing the curves of his thighs, light as a feather, taking all of him in, with every sense of his being.

“I need you…” Enjolras moans, propping himself up his elbows and spinning his head to look at Grantaire with sinful desire. “I – _ah,_ I need to feel you…”

Grantaire shuts his eyes tightly, in an expression of pain that throbs through all the joints and muscles in his body. He tries hard to regain his composure, taking in a sharp inhale of air that tastes of Enjolras, before lazily stroking himself, spreading the liquid over the tip with his thumb, his face pulled up in a sentimental frenzy. He’s a gorgeous sight, dragging his tongue over his already shining, chapped lips, looking so natural and _free_ in all his naked and colorful, tattooed glory.

Enjolras can hardly restrain himself while Grantaire rolls the condom over his length with a broken sigh, and leans forward to kneel around his hips and align their sweaty bodies together. He can feel the care in his touches and it’s almost agonizing. Beneath Grantaire’s hands and lips, he’s not fragile and made of shiny porcelain. He feels sacred instead, like a rune, or ancient like a song that needs to rhyme in the right way. “Permit me?” he breathes with adoration into his skin. Enjolras just kisses him, rolling around from his torso and up, clumsy and unsteady and stumbling over the pillows, or tongues and clashing teeth until Grantaire pulls away, gasping for air.

He flinches against the cold feeling of the lube on his entrance, as Grantaire wraps his hands around his lithe waist and raises his hips towards him. He slides inside him slowly, and the world stops turning. “You okay?” Grantaire murmurs, and Enjolras can only exhale in pain, though pushing himself against Grantaire’s body, encouraging him to continue. His breath catches in his chest before he feels Grantaire slide out again and it’s total agony, until he pushes himself back inside, feeling him deep and full, ruining him completely as Enjolras cries his name atop of his lungs.

_Is this what heaven feels like?_

_No. No, this is hell, torturous and fervent, it smells of sea and pine, he’s made of wax and he’s being fucked by flames..._

“Oh God, _Enj_ -olras,” he breathes huskily, and it’s different to hear his name from Grantaire’s ips, more reverent than a prayer destined to an angel. “You feel so _good…_ ” Enjolras is warm and tight and Grantaire could live inside him.

“I can’t believe that –” he breathes heavily on the curve of Enjolras’ shoulder with every thrust, “that you want me when… _ah, Enj_ –” he whispers painfully, “when I’m a mess…”

“I want you,” Enjolras assures him between erratic breaths, his eyes shut in ecstatic concentration and, for once, Grantaire believes him.

They say nothing more but each other’s names, uttered like mantras between their desperate, passionate kisses. Enjolras’ neck is aching as he turns his head around, his knees and palms are sore with the friction as Grantaire’s hand moves under his abdomen, wrapping around him and stroking him free with rough, deft fingers. He peppers his pale, smooth shoulders with kisses and they move in unison, a symphony of muffled grunts and throaty moans, their bodies fitting together as if their missing pieces have been shoved back in place.

He’s waited for so long, and now he won’t endure this anymore. His stomach is already spasming, he’s muffling his grunts between Enjolras’ shoulder blades, his fingers digging deep into the hot flesh of Enjolras’ hips and waist, silk and pulsating, better than marble, better than Hades and Persephone, than Eros and Psyche. They are Orestes, and Pylades accepted. Achilles, and Patroclus reunited. Their hearts are synchronized, and it is wild.

“Fuck, _Grantaire_ – I’m…”

Grantaire comes inside him with a jerk of his hips, his eyes tightly shut and his lips parted in a silent, spend awe. Enjolras climaxes shortly after, crying his name. He collapses atop of his lover, breathless and shining with sweat.

They hold each other until their heartbeat grows steady, fiercely tangled together with their foreheads entwined. Grantaire’s eyes are gleaming with bliss and Enjolras watches him like that for the first time, taking in every beloved, tiny detail, like the small wrinkles that surround them, the shape of his crooked nose and his thick, shiny lashes.

“I meant it, you know,” he murmurs as Grantaire’s fingers trace featherweight lines over his skin. “I really, uhm... love you.” He flutters his rosy eyelids open. “You don’t have to say it back,” he rushes to add, hooking a knee around his soft waist, but Grantaire silences him with his lips.

“I think I can leave with that,” he whispers hoarsely against his mouth. 

Their breathing evens out, and they hold each other until the sun comes out.

*

It’s not easy, nothing is, but he’s coping, or at least he’s making an effort, and he’s making it for his sake alone.

They’re all there for him, in their own ways. He hated it in the beginning, that constant feeling of sickness and weakness and vulnerability, but then it shone like it really was, not violently and all at once like a fierce burst of light, but slowly, hesitantly making sense, like the virginal morning rays in all their pastel hues in the way they peer through the grilles and sneak underneath the sheets to tangle around them. It came with time, and Grantaire asked for help, to find it generously supplied.

Sometimes their efforts are meaningful, necessary, some others they’re just cute and merely moving. Grantaire needs all of them. Combeferre and his harsh yet honest words to ground and encourage him, Joly and his down-to-earth medical advice, Bossuet and Cosette to distract him and Feuilly to remind him of his worth. He needs Courfeyrac and Marius to make him laugh even when it seems impossible, Bahorel to drive him at his sessions and Musichetta to cover up for him at work. Grantaire _needs_ Jehan and Éponine to answer his shaky calls at 5AM, he needs it more than he needs oxygen and, as bad as he feels about it, he really does need everyone’s abstinence from alcohol, at least when he’s present. And he _has_ that. All of it.

Only thins once, he has something more.

He wakes up with Enjolras. Not in the next morning, not after a hung over party or a drunken argument with only a bed left to share, no. Grantaire wakes up with Enjolras in the middle of the night, shivering or sweaty and stinky, uncomfortable and cranky and so very _intimate_. He wakes up with tentacles wrapped fiercely around him, limbs hooked on his waist and fluffy hair smelling coconut all over his face, with drool on his neck and pillow marks on every exposed inch of his skin. He wakes up in the morning, freezing with the covers completely gone, half-kicked under the bed with an arm smashing his chest. That’s how he wakes up with Enjolras, how he cracks his bleary eyes open, and drifts back into a dream where everything’s soft and warm and smells of mornings in Paris, quiet and thankful. Both of which he’s learning to be himself. Slowly. Gracefully. Together, and not completely.

It’s not Enjolras who saves him. It’s neither himself, so not poetically heroic shit for him, thank you very much. It’s just a process that happens, that’s how he wants to see it, and nothing is perfect, nor will it ever be. There are still times when he feels like he’s walking on a string, only now he’s growing wings: hesitant, baby, sunproof wings all of his own, and there are slips through which he just _might_ survive.

There are others where he might as well fall, and then get caught.

Enjolras is there to remind him how much of a faith-based thing this is, and elicit for him the tiny fragments of trust he’d buried so deep he’d rendered untouchable.

And he’s coping. He really is. Seasons go on, minutes do too, only a bit slower, days die and grow again, and it’s autumn in Paris.

_And he’s coping._

“You suck,” the horrible burrito monster in his bed groans crankily, and Grantaire can’t afford holding back a smile. For all he knows, Enjolras may be literal in his words, considering that they’re both sporting a terrific _Eau De Matin_ in their breaths, but the short-following sleepy-sloppy kiss assures him that his boyfriend is more likely figuratively protesting for being woken up in the absurd hour of ten on a Sunday. Because apparently, the fearsome, stressed out, hard-working revolutionary has a weakness in his breaks between overthrowing governments, and that is turning to a lazy kitten on weekend mornings. A lazy, cuddlykitten.

“You suck more,” Grantaire croaks, trying to disentangle himself from Enjolras’ deathly grip. “I _mean_ it,” he emphasizes. “No kisses before we brush our teeth, you picture of sophisticated grace. Come on,” he kicks what feels like a thigh under the sheets. “I’m making coffee.”

“ _I’m_ making coffee today,” Enjolras smiles menacingly, and Grantaire swears under his breath.

The thing is, Enjolras’ coffee sucks. More than the both of their morning breaths put together. Hell,it sucks more than the fucking waters of the Seine. Actually, it tastes a bit like them. _Watery._

He eats pancakes he pretends he likes, wondering if he should really start drinking again if it is to put up with it every time Enjolras is feeling inspired, and stops abruptly when he chews an eggshell. They’re at the triumvirate’s apartment today. Or rather, most of the days. They have been so since Courfeyrac first found Grantaire there and quoted Mulan, squealing “Would you like to stay for dinner? Oh my, would you like to stay _forever_?”

They lately found out that both Jehan and Courfeyrac had long ago been planning – and betting on – the confiscation of Grantaire’s bedroom to extend their domestic horizons. And adopt Maenad as their own, dress her up and take pretentious Halloween photos with a zombie cat. As for Éponine and Combeferre, they are enjoying their exile upstairs at Feuilly and Bahorel, the two of them being the busiest one with jumping at each other’s throat – always lovingly – to complain for disturbingly loud sex, and leave the place empty for long enough to allow le maître du sex Combeferre bend and be bent over several different surfaces. Thankfully the few times that either Feuilly or Bahorel have walked up in Éponine and Combeferre shouting and bending each other over pieces of furniture, was during a passionate game of Wii, fully dressed in each other’s clothes. They didn’t have to bleach their eyes like that, or at least they didn’t have to because of Éponine in a grandpa cardigan a couple of sizes too big, because Combeferre in a fitted tank top was an entirely different issue.

But his friends’ love lives is not exactly what concerns Grantaire right now, not when they’re still paying off their debts of the betting pool they’d set for his _own_ love life, not even when he can practically hear them having sex or running up and down this dysfunctional, problematic building he’s learnt to call home. Now, Grantaire has something entirely different to care about right now. That Enjolras, Combeferre and Courfeyrac’s apartment has a tiny balcony in the kitchen, one of those typical, ridiculous Parisian ones where you feel that your ass is too big to fit in this shit. So he sips orange juice sneakily from the bottle resting his back against the balcony door, and raises his eyes as Enjolras approaches him, making his heart do that small leap in his chest and scare him of actually tripping over and falling from the fifth floor.

Hands run down his sides and rest on his waist, making his breath hitch on his throat. Enjolras is still, after his second coffee, all groggy and disheveled, and Grantaire can’t hold back a dose of affectionate sarcasm. “Hello gorgeous,” he hums, leaning closer to bury his face in the crook of Enjolras’ neck.

“Your fucking stubble,” Enjolras growls, shoving his hands down Grantaire’s pants to punish him.

“Sorry…” Grantaire’s breath rasps frozen.

“I like it,” Enjolras breathes, and Grantaire kisses him. He feels him grimace beneath his lips. “Toothpaste and orange juice,” Enjolras snorts under his breath. “Always classy as fuck.”

“Sorry your majesty, you see, your coffee…” His hands are travelling under Enjolras’ shirt, making it his turn to hiss, mostly at the coldness of his skin.

“Screw you,” he murmurs pleasantly, when his phone goes off with the first riff of The Beatles’ Revolution, and Enjolras rolls his eyes. “Changed my ringtone again?” he murmurs before picking it up.

“Sorry to interrupt any shower blow jobs,” it’s hopeless, they can actually hear Courfeyrac through the wall, he doesn’t know why they even need technology anymore, “but there’s a fundraising event about intersectional feminism and education which _you_ have been organizing for over a month, starting in an hour from now at the fricking Marais!”

“I remember that, Courf, but right now you _are_ actually interrupting a shower blow job.” Enjolras gives the phone a horrible smile, causing Grantaire to choke on dear oxygen itself, before hanging up.

“What…” Grantaire chokes once again, his eyes growing huge – together with other things – “what have you done…?”

Enjolras seems to be terribly enjoying this, all narrow eyes and seductive grins. “What do you think?”

“But we’re fucking not…”

“R…” he raises an eyebrow, all flushed and _ready,_ as he places his hands on Grantaire’s hips and pulls him closer. “Don’t make me a liar.”

Grantaire is not going to put his hand on what has possessed his lover and taken his place but, as the hot water drips on their bodies against the piles of the wall he knows he can get very easily used to this new Enjolras. He knows that, because Enjolras’ cock is throbbing wet between his lips, his fingers frantically tugging on his damp hair, his moans falling heavy and shattered in the steamy air of the shower, and making Grantaire want to explode. He’ll get used to it, he _wants_ to. Just, not today.

They’re inevitably late but Jehan and Éponine are holding up perfectly, besides it’s time for Combeferre’s opening speech about the privilege of literacy, and then Enjolras, all flushed up and heaving, is ready to stand up and educate everyone on defying the white supremacy, whether they want it or not.

It’s extremely successful. Half of the Parisian organizations are attending (thanks, Bahorel), and there is an actual crowd forming outside the self-managed café, most of it swooning over the creations of Cosette and Feuilly’s anti-appropriation Halloween workshop.

Grantaire smiles from his corner, always holding a reserved distance, his ankles crossed together against the brick wall of the crowded place, the palpable passion of which exhales something of May 68, his parka hanging from his shoulder. He sees Enjolras answering to questions about legal trans rights, Courfeyrac and Combeferre organizing the conversation – and keeping each other to a certain level of peace and sobriety – while Musichetta, Joly and Bossuet hand out educative pamphlets and greet the guests.

And then it’s his turn, and he tries hard to pretend he doesn’t care so that no one else will care, because he doesn’t have the strength to be obnoxious about it, not now, not when it’s going so well, so he just curls around his guitar with his heart on his throat, and tries to meet Jehan’s eye to see if the accordion is ready and agree about the equality-themed repertoire, but then they’re cheering, everyone is, and Grantaire is fuzzy.

It’s all about him, he realizes. They’re _making_ it about him. It’s transparent and he hates them so fucking much but there are people actually _wanting_ to hear his music, and everyone’s face is lit up as if he’s going to climb the mount fucking Everest and turn to the Yeti instead of strumming a couple of chords, and then Enjolras is crossing the room and, before he knows it, pulls him in his arms and kisses him in front of everyone, and Grantaire melts.

And people love his music, people he doesn’t know, they love his voice and his art and everything he does, and he really doesn’t want them to but it doesn’t hurt that half of them have come for him – he’ll have a word or two about uploading videos on Youtube without his consent with Bossuet later – and that the same half who came have actually helped Enjolras’ cause make another step.

_Their cause._

Autumn is doing things to Paris. Grantaire isn’t a fucking poet, but he knows it’s how it should be, it’s how it feels fucking right. It’s cold and it’s piercing his cheeks, and there are leaves waltzing in the air and rustling beneath the soles of their boots. The morning clouds play a twisted game when the evening comes, lavishing the sky in liquid, azure and Tyrian watercolors. There is peace at the Medici fountain, a small fairytale blooming amidst a hazy, futuristic reality. An invisible gargoyle is turning the lights on, one by one, on Ile de la Cité and the Seine wakes up from its morning slumber. Grantaire wants autumn for his own sake right now, it’s an egoistic feeling of clinginess on something that once belonged to him, autumn never patronized him. They were drunk and insomniac together, paving an overcast darkness that gave things surreal clarity. Autumn is not his own anymore, but it’s okay. Courfeyrac is laughing through the season, taking pictures of them all before night completely prevails and lights up everything. Grantaire watches his friends posing, Cosette in her tapisserie dress and Victorian boots, Éponine in her best 80s attire and Musichetta making an early steampunk Halloween with Joly and his adorable grimaces behind a scarf Grantaire recognizes as Enjolras-knitted. Combeferre is looking like he’s come out of a Burberry magazine in his tweed coat and effortfully effortless ruffled hairdo, and Enjolras himself is quite a sight, clad in fitting red wool and _Grantaire’s_ actual scarf.

He’s reluctantly dragged into most frames, smothered by his friends and poked by Jehan’s DIY fawn antlers – which he casually sports every other day out in the street, to compliment his newly trimmed _boucles rouges_ that complete the whole Medieval troubadour look. He snorts and pulls away, feeling sorry forever when he realizes that results to Marius’ hurt feelings, but then he’s attacked, and the air is sucked out of his lungs.

Enjolras’ hands are cold around his own, “I’m going to knit us gloves,” he murmurs quietly against his lips, before pulling him for a noisette-scented kiss. Grantaire shuts his eyes and leans into it with all his being. He half thinks that Enjolras – this new, odd creature that claims to be Enjolras – is doing this on purpose for Courfeyrac to take photos, and he can practically hear Courfeyrac’s melancholic sighs as Jehan wipes invisible tears off his face (“My babies, they grow up so fast!”)

They lean over the padlock bridge while Marius and Cosette make tolerably cute sounds on a distance, searching for their own lock, one he had made for them.

“So, about the padlocks,” Grantaire whispers cheekily, not taking his eyes away from all the lights reflecting in the Seine as the wind plays with their hair. Enjolras’ tufts of blond hair are peeking underneath a grey beret. His nose is all red, his eyelids rosy, and he’s adorable. “You were saying…?”

“They’re a polluting, defiling tourist trap,” Enjolras growls. “So, over my dead body.”

Grantaire clicks his tongue disapprovingly. “You’re just being cynical.”

“ _I…”_ Enjolras gasps incredulously. “I’m being. Cynical.”

“Precisely,” Grantaire hums pleasantly.

“Hey, you two, don’t fall into the water,” Éponine elbows him playfully from the other side, almost actually throwing him into the water.

“It would be so dramatic, wouldn’t it?” Grantaire asks sarcastically, wrapping his jacket tighter around his body. “Jehan would have to write a poem about the bridge.”

“Hasn’t Apollinaire already done so?” Courfeyrac doesn’t miss a chance of showing off his newly acquired poetic knowledge.

“That’s the Mirabeau bridge, so I can still write about the tragic fate of the Pont de l’Archevêché,” Jehan grins mischievously.

“Which will be the collapse of a piece of historical architecture because of the weight of cheap meaningless memorabilia,” Enjolras mumbles grumpily.

Combeferre with his Cumberbatch flowing coat comes to lean back against the bridge, next to his best friend. His expression is serious and thoughtful, his eyebrows frowned behind his thick rimmed glasses. Their eyes are fixed on the laughing lot running up and down the bridge and grimacing at Courfeyrac’s flirtatious lens. Enjolras looks distracted for a while. There are some moments when the two of them react identically, resembling twins separated at birth. This is one of those moments. Their eyes follow the same path, their features conform to the same pensive frown, they even pursue their lips the same way.

“So,” Combeferre says his voice quite impressed. “Great job on almost giving Courf an apoplexy. I couldn’t have going better myself.”

“Why, thank you,” Enjolras nods. “You enjoying yourself?”

Combeferre mysteriously pushes his glasses up his nose. “As much as the next person.”

“Bets going well?”

“You’ve made your friend a rich man.” Enjolras receives a pat on his shoulder. “You should be feeling proud.”

“Proud for encouraging an individual’s material completion which renders him a wheel in a corrupted, capitalistic society?” Enjolras scowls.

“Behave,” Combeferre clears his throat bemusedly.

Enjolras turns to smirk at his friend, elbowing him affectionately. “You too.”

He turns to Grantaire, throwing his arms around his waist as darkness falls. The bateaux mouches are floating beneath them, kitsch lights, loud music and bourgeois diners distracting passers-by. Grantaire nuzzles his face in the warmth of Enjolras’ neck, inhaling the faint scent of cloth softener on his scarf and pressing his forehead on the cold, smooth skin of Enjolras’ cheek.

“Are you planning to?” he murmurs, his frozen, gloveless fingers tracing circles on his partner’s knuckles. “Behave, I mean.”

Enjolras hums sluggishly, his mouth sending vibrations in Grantaire’s head. He can feel his heart thrumming through his body, joining the frantic tumult in Grantaire’s own ribcage. “Always,” Enjolras mutters in a solemn voice that grows hoarse, slightly pulling away to stare at him with deep blue eyes. “I want you to kiss me.”

Their hands clasp, cold and rough from the dryness of the weather, blood pumping beneath their skin. They slowly turn their heads back, towards the mayhem of their laughing friends, before Paris gathers them again.

“If you permit me…”

He kisses the Seine off of Apollo’s lips, again and again, waves of a river beneath his shut eyelids, making their circle and meet all over again, mingling and flowing together into eternity.

They’re on top of it.

 

 _Les mains dans les mains restons face à face_  
           Tandis que sous  
     Le pont de nos bras passe  
Des éternels regards l'onde si lasse

_Vienne la nuit sonne l'heure  
           Les jours s'en vont je demeure_

_Guillaume Apollinaire_


End file.
